the Gap
by spockjasperlokizukowriting
Summary: Isla Selvig moves to a cold city, from amidst the tepid welcome she learns of the Asgards, a family of strange but kind people. Matters only worsen when the son of a SHIELD agent gets involved, but Isla can't help but be lured by the boy with green eyes.
1. Color of Snow

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

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><p><strong>One- Color of Snow<strong>

_Blue eyes. Piercing ones, deep and soulful with florescent irises, all surrounded by black. The light, the shadows, the depths of the lines dividing the two- the curves, the twists and angular edges, all framing around the dark circles splaying across the tender skin, shading into different layers, completing the whole of the image. _

_Blue eyes. Rich and colorful, with a mix of an indigo and flecked with gold. The perfect ocean before the storm, the waves rising and lapping against the center, tumbling like the clouds across the heavenly sky. Brown hair flecked down across the strong, broad forehead, rigid bone framing up the bottom to divulge a gentle face structure, strong and pointed, the cheeks dusted with rose. _

_Blue eyes. The sum, the whole- it was magnificent, a perfect array of framework and sound genetics. The light, now it moves, passing across the planes of the face, perfect and symmetrical, the chestnut hair waving like the trees in a breeze, soft and glowing in the hues of dim, gray light. The shadows flicker almost in candlelight, the subtle brilliancy of it stunning to take in. It moves, it breathes- it lives. It's nearly impossible to capture. But I know I can try. _

_Blue eyes. Just start with the blue eyes. _

I tapped the pencil briefly upon my lips before twisting them and quickly scribbling out an eye on the paper, mirroring it with another, sketching out with delicate strokes the hints and the edges, dividing the center with a gentle nose and a brow, knitted in the middle to form a thoughtful scowl. I smeared the fringe of the lashes before I made sure to hint them in again, pulling a dark blue pencil from its pouch as I started shading the edges of the irises, quickly removing the tip as I once again started forming the face, nurturing it on the paper, quickly erasing any stray marks as I fixed the hair and sunk my pencil down to edge the face. I perfected the cheekbones quickly before I sat back, tucking my legs to my chest to form an uncouth desk. I sighed, studying what I had just bashed out.

Mediocre. It could hardly live up to standards. _My_ standards.

I growled in frustration and threw my sketchbook on the floor, zipping my pencil in the pouch before tossing that down on the carpet too. The car rocked as my father steered the wheel, guiding the minivan around a corner, our possessions rustling in the back as they shifted. My mother's blond hair shone like gold in the seat before me, her seat-belt groaning briefly as she turned to gaze sadly over her shoulder, her brown eyes considerate.

"Isla, why treat your sketchbook with such hostility?" she inquired, pulling her lips into a kind, wide smile, her brow lifting, brown eyes warm. "The poor thing isn't to blame."

My brother snickered in the seat next to me, the owner of the blue eyes and chestnut hair, hinting in bronze as the rain and storm clouds outside filtered the light. "True, sis'. It didn't do anything wrong. You just can't draw."

I quickly punched him in the shoulder, but meant it playfully, smiling and laughing in the process. "Hey you- be nice!"

"Hey both of you!" my father grunted from the driver's seat. "No horseplay while I'm driving. You can both walk to the house for all I care."

"But I wouldn't know where it was!" I pointed out innocently.

"That's the point, thickness," my brother trolled with a roll of his eye.

I bristled, clutching my fists and hugging my knees closely. _Why, oh why, did I consider drawing him? I thought that would be a compliment! _

My mother smiled gently at both of us, a soft hint in her eye as she looked down at the strewn sketchbook. She met my gaze while my brother resorted to forcing the headphones in his ears, ruffling the collar of his thick jacket, his fingerless gloves and jeans whispering as he squirmed, forcing himself to look out the window to avoid our notice. The storm continued to brew, thunder rattling the car as lightning touched in the distance, flashing and rumbling again. I fidgeted in the leather of the car seat, my fur boots scratching against the gray, splintered flooring.

"Can I see what made you so angry?" my mother asked.

"It's probably something worthy of being Picasso's heir," my father laughed, squeezing the wheel as he engaged the clutch and changed gears, slowing down for a traffic light. I shrugged and picked up the book, handing it to my eager mother, her smile tightening in excitement.

"Oh, dearest, they're wonderful!" my mother praised, crooning over the sketches, pouring and encouraging.

I quietly tuned out her ramblings, occasionally nodding and providing a response as I looked outside, wondering what my brother found so fascinating of the outside world. I squinted past the fog and droplets coursing down the glass of my window, placing a hesitant hand on the cold surface while I watched. The tinted windows of the other cars gently passed us, gleaming as we shifted back into second gear, the smudged light turning green. I isolated every spectrum and shadow, imaging the brief frames of time within in my mind, looking for a sight worth recording in my sketchbook. My fingertips quickly went numb, sleet mixing into the rain, patches of sludgy snow melting with the small rivers of water down the gravel road, spectators hiding beneath long coats and underneath umbrellas, different shades of black dotting out beneath awnings and disappearing into the various stores and restaurants, hiding behind the bells clinking from shutting doors. A woman walking her dog briefly paused to look at our foreign, blue vehicle, puzzling through the gray, dreary weather, briefly meeting my gaze. I gasped and quickly looked away from her hazel eyes, her curly blond hair wavering in the wind as she stopped, pulling out from beneath her cashmere scarf.

My fogged breath disappeared from the window, and I craned my neck to check to see if she was there. But when my eyes met the place, she had vanished. My heart skipped a beat while before my mother brought me out of my trance, poking my arm with my sketchbook. She held my gaze and smiled earnestly, teasing a grin back from me- my father had often said that we both smiled too much.

"Sweetie, your sketches truly are wonderful!" she pleaded. "You should respect your talent."

I sighed briefly and then looked down at my sketchbook, turning open the cover to let the pages fall. They rested back to the image of my old school crush, something I had drawn back in sixth grade. I giggled briefly at it, beaming as I remembered how enamored I had been with this boy- the teased brown hair, the wonderful, russet eyes, slouched position and easy grin. He had been a lost cause. Turns out there were reasons he was so well groomed for a young boy his age. Father had only laughed.

I smiled and looked back up at my mother. "Mom, I can only see memories and flaws when I look back at them," I insisted. "Not the flaws with the memories, though- the flaws in the sketches. They way they were captured. I can never get it _just_ right. There's always a side I'm missing..."

My mother gave me a puzzled expression.

I bit my lip and continued. "They hold only sentimental worth to me."

"But it's a fabulous insight to how your mind works," she breathed, turning back to face the front. "It's great to finally get some answers to the logic of your world."

"It can't be understood otherwise," my brother, Andrew, drawled, sighing and shaking his head before rubbing his temple with long fingers. "I'm the oldest but I still don't understand her."

"My logic is sound!" I promised at his teasing. "It makes sense!"

"Really?" he challenged, taking a bud from his ear as he flashed a crooked grin, clicking the noise down on his iPhone. "And what about that time you crawled upon a ladder onto the roof when you were just two because you could get a better view of mom's garden? Or the time you saw dad painting the edges of the floor in the bathroom and you decided to paint your own room purple- furniture and all? Or perhaps when you were told not to touch anything in the car while Aunt Elin and I went in the store to pick up our order, and you somehow managed to start the car _and_ drive it through the wall? When had that all made sense in your mind? And more importantly, _why?"_

"Andrew..." my mother soothed with a warm gaze. "She was very young when all of those occurrences happened."

"She was eight, for crying out loud, when we left her in the car, mom!" he retorted.

"And it wasn't like I was killed when that happened!" I fought back, but grinned when my brother threw a glare to my side, his eyes shooting daggers. Andrew was a handsome young man of eighteen, soon to be nineteen, but he frowned too much. A smile was rare, and a blessing.

My father laughed, turning around the corner. "Isla's always been adventuresome and creative, Andrew," my father reminded, looking briefly in the rear-view mirror as he crossed from the main city and started towards the suburban neighborhoods, the rich, middle class, grandiose houses lining the street, modeled into modern spectacles and frameworks of art. The rain had well and truly settled now, turning into a storm of snow, floating down in hurried clumps, stopping up the curbs and gutters in fluffs and clouds, deformed snowmen peaking up from the rough-hewn lawns. "It's in her nature."

"Besides, if adventure's all she needs, then what better a place to find it than in a new home?" my mother offered, grinning around at us while she gripped her armrest. Tresses of blond hair whispered down past her shoulders, accenting my father's gray.

Andrew hung his head, quickly sneering and turning back to the window, gesturing at it with stiff, rigid movements. "Home? You're already coining that term for his dump?"

"Well, it's one of the richer neighborhoods..." she frowned in confusion.

"I didn't mean it like that!" he snapped, blue eyes fierce. "I mean, this isn't home, mom! Home is where you look forward to return to everyday, with a pure need to belong there! Home is where you family awaits for you, where your family loves you! Home is the place you go when there's no other options. This _isn't_ home! Home is in New Mexico, not freaking Connecticut!"

Mother gave him a hurt expression while I looked between them, frightened, uncomfortable as I sat and shrank into my corner, clutching my sketchbook and hugging it to my chest.

My father sighed, stopping briefly before turning onto another street. "Listen, children... I know that this isn't home, and that you hate moving, but this is our life now. We'll have to make the most of it. You all know why we did this- I needed the job here. The college in our hometown was collapsing; it was too remote! We need this change of scene. We'll be living as upper middle class citizens with a constructive community and wonderful neighbors. The high school is nearby and you'll have plenty of opportunities for universities on the East Coast: much more than our remote home in New Mexico could ever offer. The people here are welcoming and kind, and I hear you have many kids your age living on the street... Well, mostly all Andrew's age and a year younger, but I'm sure there's some babysitting to be done for you too, Isla!"

I smiled at the opportunity, looking forward to the socializing. Fresh faces, fresh ideas- new images to sketch and record. I was jovial at the thought of meeting new people, having new acquaintances and friends. I hadn't many back at our remote home in New Mexico, while my brother had been the most popular boy in school. If he knew anything, he knew how to interact with people. I had decent social skills, and my mother had assured me that I had a sense of humor, but the girls at the school never really had time for me. I did have friends, but none that I could truly bond with and call a close one. They were all mainly concerned about guys, though, and didn't favor me when I sat at my park bench and drew. I quietly looked down and skimmed through the pages, meeting the different characters and scenes that I had, remembering the faces from my old life, remembering that I was prepared to accept the new, eager to start afresh.

"I can't wait, dad!" I pitched enthusiastically.

"Easy for you to say, chipper-skipper," Andrew grouched, burying his earphones in once more and cranking up the volume. "Every day's a good day for you."

"When have we ever had an excuse to be sad, Andrew?" I asked innocently. "We've had happy lives and we're not starving or lacking anything. I don't think there's anything missing."

He groaned, clicking his phone on and gazing at the lock-screen wallpaper. "Maybe you don't because you hardly had any friends. I left a girlfriend back in New Mexico!"

"Oh, you're not still whining about Georgie, are you?" my father lamented.

"Dad, you don't know what it's like!" Andrew snapped. "The girl of your dreams gets to come with us!"

"As if I had a choice," my mother chuckled.

"Miranda!" my father gasped, feigning hurt.

"Kidding, dearest," she grinned, blinking her eyes innocently and tightening her shoulders upwards. "You're the only Erik for me."

"Besides, you're married! You have to stay together! Everything comes between Georgie and me! What if Cliff starts dating her? It's just like him to swoop in and pick up the leftovers! My Georgie! With Cliff!" he protested.

"You're overreacting," I sighed, smiling and shaking my head at him.

He narrowed his eyes. "It's not like you have any idea either, clueless."

"Andrew Selvig, that's enough!" my mother reprimanded with a proud tone, silencing my brother. "It's one thing to be ungrateful for your sanction but another thing entirely for you to be mean and take it out on your sister!"

"But-"

"Responsibility, Andrew," my father interrupted, frowning at him in the rear-view mirror. "Learn it. Your sister is your responsibility, and you'll treat her with respect."

"I'm only twp years younger than you," I pointed out with a grin.

"Two _school years_, Isla, not birth years! You're still only fifteen!" he reminded, his words and and tone bitter.

"Still jealous that I skipped two school years, Andrew?" I prodded, smiling and giggling as he glowered at me.

"Hush, both of you," my mother finally laughed, turning back to face the front windshield, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "Isla, just as it's not his place to retaliate, it isn't your place to egg him on. How about a game of silence until we reach our new home?"

Andrew grunted under his breath at the word.

"Besides, it's only about three minutes away, and most of the furniture has been unpacked and arranged for us," she continued, ignoring Andrew's quiet brooding. "We only need to put our personal valuables there, arrange ourselves, put what travel food we have in the pantry and fridge, then we can be done! You guys will have a couple days to adjust, and then Isla, you start your new school. You'll finish up your Junior year, turn sixteen in January, and graduate with a perfect GPA at only seventeen. Andrew, I expect you to look for a job. There are plenty of paramedic places for you to start at, and the hospitals I've talked to are glad to try and take you on. I couldn't have more impressive children, or a more impressive place for them to grow. Now, let's have those silent three minutes."

We both bit our tongues back, staring out the windows and watching as we saw children play in the snow, turning down the streets, older couples drinking cocoa as they watched their grandchildren frolic, younger couples walking side by side along the frosty footpaths, the snow settling down into a gentle fall, dancing down in the November air. The warm windows glowed before curtains of various colors, soft yellows and golds streaming out in the evening air, the sky graying and blackening with the calmed storm clouds. The evergreen trees stood tall and proud, pine needles spindling out like a frayed edge of rope from beneath lengths of snow, sagging ever so slightly underneath the weight. The bare branches of oaks and cedar stood still, webbing from their resolute trunks like frames up to the clouds. I was fascinated by the heavy, picturesque snow and the white gleams of it all- it was certainly an environment to capture with my heart's eye and my hand's paper and pencil. I stared, enthralled as we made one last turn onto our street, my father driving the car slowly down a small hill, winding around a corner until he reached the end of the bend, halting before pulling into the driveway of our new home.

The front lawn was fringed by a scenic white picket-fence blanketed in the layers of snow, our perfectly square lawn divided with a small, cobblestone footpath that lead through a brief garden path of poinsettias and baby saplings, holly and ivy crawling along next to the fence bordering our new neighbors yard. I quietly got out with my family, taken back by the bold front face of our house, the garage squaring in the middle of our driveway, a small curl in the architecture leading to a wooden and glass doorway, framed by a small porch of cement, a column supporting the built in, sturdy awning. The two stories of it stretched high, higher than our old flat hat been, wide and expanding backwards to a sizable house. The dark purple and blue coloration contrasted the red roof-tiles, the small street-lantern, 1940 style porch-light glowing in a golden orb of kind, yule-tide light.

I stuffed my sketchbook into my bag and threw it over my shoulder, pulling on my red gloves and securing my brown, stylish parka at the neck, my scarf tucked in safely to protect my pale neck, a curl of russet hair floating down from underneath my beanie. My father and mother popped from the car, shutting the doors behind them, each donning their personal bags. Our sable, black Sudan contained a few traveling bags of belongings, clothes, and food in the trunk, but other than that, we had made to pack light. My father walked around to open up the front door with his new shining, golden key, disappearing past the red doorway and into the opening hallway. I rounded the back of the car, offering assistance as my mother clicked it open and filched out my traveling bag, handing me my elegant, light purple Swiss suitcase while heaving out my brother's large black duffel bag, groaning at the weight and giving him an apprehensive look.

"Hey, careful with that! It contains picture frames," he scoffed, defensively taking it back, swinging behind his shoulder thoughtlessly while glaring down at my mother, towering above her with his tall, graceful frame, blue eyes narrow. I skipped up to his side, grinning up at him, barely up to his chest, my boots crunching in the snow.

"Isn't it wonderful?" I asked, looking back up at our new house. "I never expected it to be this big, or this beautiful!"

"Yeah..." he drawled, watching the second story windows cautiously. "Guess so."

Our mother shut the boot and pulled both her and father's bag inside, eager to escape the cold, her New Mexico skin not resilient enough for the snowy weather yet, her thin cheeks blushing pink from the cold. Andrew's breath plumed before his red lips and he cleared his throat, nose turning blush.

I giggled briefly as he shoved on his beanie, the ball of cotton bouncing at the center comically as the blue and white stripes glinted in the dim light, the yarn worn at the edges. "Now, are you coming inside or not, Acorn?"

I smiled and then nodded, clicking the handle of my suitcase out and tugging it along behind him, trailing his steps closely, grinning as I thought of the nickname he had given me. While 'thickness' and 'clueless' were common as well, he had always called me Acorn. My real first name, Acacia, had been too difficult for him to pronounce when he was three. He had chosen Acorn since then and had stuck to it, though I preferred my middle name, Isla, to any other. He opened the door for me, revealing me into the house while my hair kept in the messy ponytail it had been drawn into, bouncing across my shoulder blades.

The house had a few lights turned on since my parents' presence, but still reflected the small amounts with the white and gold walls, lifting the beams up and around. The wooden, hollowed staircase coiled up around the slanted wall and into the expanse of the second story, the tiled entrance hallway dominating at least forty square feet of space. The near blank walls had a few picture frames that we had shipped before hand, and the movers had placed our furniture in the right positions. Andrew set down his duffel bag, I quickly mimicking his actions as I shut the door, sealing out the cold and shivering into the greeting warmth of the indoors. I straightened my hair in the mirror between the two front desks decorated with various pictures and figurines from my mother's traveling days of early college life. I followed Andrew forward into the living room, a precocious living space with our wide-screen TV, three couches, and some remaining boxes of other decors to materialize our essentials of home. To the left of that, and as I turned a corner, was a small party area with a dining room stretching out in one direction and a kitchen encompassing the other, necked off into a bottle cap arrangement with a fridge next to the garage door, maple cabinets shining in the florescent light. My mother looked around, curiously entranced as she took in her space to work with. This was certainly more grand that anything we had ever lived in before. We were used to money, but not to space.

I turned on my heels and walked into the large dining area, brief pillars interrupting and breaking the windowed walls into sections that stared out into our backyard, trees arranged like an orchard amongst the snow, leaved pines and hedges, with small rings of unplanted soil for gardens and a tall, wooden fence supported and framed with metal, ringing it all together. I quickly ran back out and across the carpet and tile till I reached my suitcase, grabbing it tightly and hauling it up the stairs, eager to see my room.

The upstairs was formatted in a vaguely similar style to the downstairs, leading to a general common room with another TV, a small fridge, a couple of desks with computers and another room at the far end, sectioned off from the tight hallway buried in the corner by rows of boxes and carefully packed equipment- my father's computer lab. His other research would have to be done down in the basement, as it had been explained to me. My father was scanning his space, learning where everything was, the contours of the walls appealing to him until he looked over his shoulder, his kind, open blue eyes- my brother and my eyes- meeting my own as he smiled, the gesture reaching his irises. "My dear, isn't it lovely?"

I nodded but didn't speak, smiling expectantly and gratefully.

"I'd suppose you'd want to see your room?" he asked, laughing and smiling as I nodded, enthused.

"Please!" I begged. He chuckled heartedly walking up to my side and taking my hand, walking me around the corner of a hallway and down to another smaller, more confining common area with three doors, all near each other's, opened to our already made beds and rooms, boxes of our belongings packed along the corners, one large, tiled, white bathroom on the other side of what I had assumed to be my own room.

"They each have a walk-in closet, and you'll both shall share a bathroom, the one next to your room," he explained patiently while I stood squirming with excitement. "We have our own bathroom in our room, and there's a family closet downstairs and around next to my office." He nudged my arm towards my own room. "Go explore."

I jumped up and down, bursting with joy and curiosity, briefly squeezing him into a hug before pulling both my bags behind me and into my new room. It was big, about thirty square feet in size with a large closet at the back end and my bed pressed up up to a large window that covered the expanse of the outside wall, the framed glass hidden behind thick curtains, the first layer of which was sun-resistant, the next layer a thin, translucent satin gossamer. The walls themselves were a light, kind blue rimmed with a dark, indigo purple shade. My bed was queen sized and lone, decorated and made with purple sheets, pillows, and my favorite stuffed animals. I grinned- these movers had definitely known how I liked it. I had heard from Andrew that mom had given them the strictest of instructions.

I put down my bag and pulled out my iPhone, sketchbook, pencil pouch, and laptop, setting them on the redwood desk next to my bed, quickly changing my mind and placing my phone on my nightstand, clicking on my angel lamp. I crawled across my bed and pushed aside my curtains, gazing out into the quickly dimming, twilight landscape, realizing the dark rings beneath my eyes and how exhausted I was from sitting on a plane for five hours. I set out my belongings, pulling out some pictures and my charging chords, placing my video camera next to the outlets near my drawing table and bookshelf, putting my most essential books on their own shelves. I then pulled on pajamas, being sure to keep on a light sweater over my thin shirt, shoving on fuzzy socks to keep my feet warm, slipping on my slippers as I walked from my room, tossing my curly hair about my shoulders, wondering what my brother was up to.

I walked into his dark blue room, some stray posters already set up as he lay back on his bed, hardly undressed, his beanie still on as he clung to his phone, his thumbs typing like mad as he hammered out a message to Georgie, most likely. He looked up from the screen as he sent of the text, giving me a quaint expression. "What, Acorn?"

I shrugged, walking up to his bed and setting myself down on the edge, pulling my legs up and crossing them, folding my hands in my lap. "Happy?"

"Not particularly."

I looked down at my hands. "Mom says that you'll come to love this place eventually. Besides, we're from Sweden originally, right? How hard can the snow be for us?"

He gave me a skeptically raised eyebrow, blue eyes gleaming. "Like either of us has even been to the tundras of Sweden and enjoyed ourselves."

I rolled my eyes. "Your real name _is_ Andren Pietari Selvig, isn't it?"

He laughed sarcastically. "As if _that_ has anything to do with my tolerance for this place! And what about you, Acorn? You like it here a lot better than I do, and your name is Acacia Isla Selvig. See, it has nothing to do with our names or our heritage! Don't get too buried in the past. It messes with your head. Just be grateful you're the freaking lucky-duck who got a normal name. It took _years_ to convince people that I wanted to be called Andrew Peter."

"I call you Andrew yet you still call me Acorn!" I whined, folding my arms across my chest and pouting.

He grinned briefly before leaning forward and ruffling my hair with his large hand. "That's because you're my Acorn and my sister, and you always shall be." I briefly blushed before he continued. "Now, get out of my room before I kick you out."

I laughed and gave him a much rejected hug, squeezing my arms around his large shoulders before I left, skipping from his room, shouting, "Goodnight!" down the hallway to my parents, receiving a tepid answer as I shut my room and climbed into my bed, wiggling beneath the covers. I pulled the thick comforter up over my shoulders and to my neck, feeling foreign in my new mattress, the house occasionally creaking with the new sounds of the winter wind outside, but after a brief collection of minutes, my eyelids drooped, the sounds faded, and I fell asleep gazing up at the stars.

* * *

><p>The following days were spent exploring the house. Waking up to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling always reminded me of the move, and how different things were sure to become. I'd push aside the covers of my bed, turning to my side to briefly sink down into the cushioning, shutting my eyes and imagining the coarse deserts of home, but the cold seeping in through my window always reminded me different. Waking up to a wintry view of the neighborhood was always something that kept me distracted as I watched the snow silently fall from the dark gray clouds. Pressing a tan hand against the cold window pane, I would breath against the glass and then draw shapes, something I could only do in the fogs of New Mexico. Before long, the gentle snow would tumble into a cold, sleeting rain that pattered against the roof, washing snow from our lawn and sidewalks. The webbing frost from the dew in the early mornings patterned intricate lines on the lower edges of the glass, a residual calm always following those particular nights. And during my sleep, I was blessed with dreams of flying.<p>

My house didn't hold as many secrets as I had hoped to uncover. Walking around the hard, wooden floors and biting tile to view the different contours of it all wasn't as exciting as my mother had promised. The house was built in 1994, with a structurally sound framework and no hidden passageways. I hardly felt like a heroine in a story amidst the suddenly boring home. When not exploring and sketching out the different rooms with my family members inside, I made sure to help Mother unpack and decorate. Thanksgiving had passed the day we moved, so we didn't bother to unpack any of the turkey ornaments of the cornucopias. Mother was practically silent, only conversing with me whenever she had a concern of which color went with what, or where I had put the doilies. Andrew kept mainly to his room, huddling at his desk with his phone in one hand and his laptop open with a video game at the other. I drew him once while he was listening to his music and writing one of his novels, typing away at the computer, the blue glow highlighting the sharp angles of his face, only to have him kick me away from the corner in his room and slam the door behind me. His mood hadn't improved in the slightest.

Dad was more sociable, but was immersed in making his lab more like _his_ lab, turning the place into a study as he heaved out his books from cardboard boxes and shelved them along the walls, scattering papers and equipment out into an organized mess. I sat against the far wall as he worked, occasionally asking him questions, but he was distracted.

"Dad," I began slowly, tapping my eraser against the lip of my sketchbook.

"Yes?" he replied, stacking binders in their appropriate filing cabinets.

"...what exactly will you be doing at the University?" I asked hesitantly.

He grunted as he pushed the cabinet closed. "Teaching," he affirmed, glancing in my direction as he hurried back to his main desk area. "Researching. I'll be working with some of the more renowned minds in my field."

I smiled absently, imagining my father's colleagues at home. "Since when haven't you worked with the brightest and best?"

Father laughed, delving into a new stack of records. "Dr. Foster is an excellent man- very amiable and kind. His daughter, Jane Foster, lives a couple streets away." He grinned at me across his shoulder. "She's only a year older than you, you know. Heard that she's becoming a child prodigy. She's to follow in his footsteps as she graduates in the spring. Perhaps you'll be going to the same school. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

I pursed my lips. "Perhaps..."

"Now where _is_ that darn paper?..." he asked himself quietly, surveying the room with one sweeping gaze.

I quickly fixed my image as he rearranged a couple of the ordered books. "But, Dad... are there any children _my_ age here? Like, do we have neighbors I can be friends with? Other fifteen year olds?"

"Of course we do, dearest," he assured, entranced with whatever he was sorting through at his desk. "I've heard that the majority of the students at the high school live in this suburb. If you meet anyone at school, they'll be almost always within walking distance."

"But I'm young," I explained hurriedly, feeling anxious. "I'm the age and appearance of a freshmen, yet I'll be a Junior. These people will be much bigger than me, much older. I had this problem back in New Mexico. How can I identify with them?"

"Maybe you'll find another smart student like yourself," Father suggested, though he didn't turn to face me. "Either way, you'll be sure to have allies in the warzone that is high school."

I grinned weakly. "Well, that's nice." The pressing fear in the back of my mind of continued isolation made my heart skip a beat nervously, tumbling in my chest.

My father paused to look over his shoulder, his blue eyes narrowed. "Are you legitimately worried that you _won't_ have any friends?"

"Dad, I-"

"Isla Selvig, that is ridiculous!" he snapped, furrowing his brow. "I don't want to hear you speak like that again. You'll make tons of friends."

I examined his expression, gripping my sketchbook tightly. "Dad, have you not been listening to anything I've been saying?" I asked, exasperated. "You've completely blanked on my concerns until now?"

He tightened his lips, averting his gaze to his desk as he sighed. "Just remember to be confident, an you- ahh, there it is!"

"Hmm?" I frowned in confusion.

"Found it! Crisis averted!" he chirped, turning back while holding up a packet, smiling brilliantly as if he had just won a gold medal.

I beamed back at him, but inwardly sighed. Did no one in my family have time for me?

* * *

><p>My alarm clock blared, squeaking and crying out that the time clearly stated to get up. I groaned, rolling over lethargically and planted my palm solidly over the top, silencing the beast. I leaned my head back, placing an absent forearm over my eyes, breathing inwardly as I struggled to think of why I had been summoned at seven o'clock in the morning to planet earth.<p>

And then I remembered.

Today was my first day of school.

The idea should've hardly seemed daunting. I'd been going to school for nearly half a semester before I was pulled out for our move. School was a breeze, I found none of it difficult to surpass. I was intelligent enough, but the suggestion felt...frightening.

I swallowed through a sore, clogged throat and anxiously got up, feeling increasingly awake as I fumbled about my room, searching with outstretched hands for the light-switch. Once I found it, I hesitated over the pile of clothes Mother had helped lay out for me the night before, assuring me that I would look pleasing and would be dressed warmly enough for the wintry climate ahead. Skinny jeans, boots, a thick jacket over a tight, skin-fitting blue shirt. I slipped into the outfit, adjusting myself in the mirror before taming my wild hair, brushing it up into a pony-tail, the curls of my russet tresses loosely hanging down my shoulder blades.

Sighing, I measured myself in the mirror. I wasn't particularly tall, with a slender frame, almost too slender if it weren't for my body's pathetic attempt at curves. Tanned from the New Mexico weather with rouge cheeks and violent, dark blue eyes. Heart shaped-face, high cheekbones, and a defined jawline. I was hardly worth noticing- the only thing ethereal being my eyes, almost the sable color of the deep sea, a shade stolen from sapphire.

I briefly reached up and brushed my cheek, biting my lip, watching the light from my window and ceiling fan dance across the planes of my face, wondering if anything about me at all was worth noticing.

I silently prayed that this day wouldn't be one to regret.

Snatching my sketchbook and pushing the essentials into my backpack, I fetched my loose beanie and headed out, glimpsing Andrew's empty room to reassure myself. It was as planned: Andrew would walk me to my bus-stop today. I bounded down the staircase, going passed my father's homely lab to dash into the kitchen. Mother strode about in her bathrobe, her hair tousled and strangled into curlers, her face glowing when devoid of make-up. Andrew slumped at the table, immersed in the local newspaper while he gulped down coffee. Outside of the dining room windows, a fresh layer of snow had fallen, coating the frozen landscape in a case of ice. Father was absent- he'd probably already gone for work.

"Good morning!" my mother chirped, enthusiastically popping toast from the toaster and throwing it onto a plate, showering it all with eggs and bacon. Finally lathered high, she handed it gracefully to me with a flourish, expectant. "How was your sleep?"

"Good," I replied, finding a seat across from Andrew at the table. He heeded me no welcome or homely gesture, ignoring my presence while he continued to read. "I had a dream."

Her interest pricked, my mother quickly grabbed her own coffee and bumbled over to the table, wet hair fraying from her neat arrangements. "Oooh, oooh," she cooed. "Do tell!" She propped her chin upon her hands, her eyes wide like an eager puppy.

I grinned, forking a couple eggs and chewing, the ceramic plate clinking from the contact. "I was in a garden, that only I knew about. And, in the garden, there was a pond. I looked into the pond, but I couldn't see my own reflection. I saw nothing but the black water. Also, I couldn't touch anything... What do you think that means?"

She quickly leaned back, fanning herself as she tried to think. "Oooh, oooh, this is a good one... Um, er, Andrew! Andrew, snap out of it!" She tapped him on the shoulder, smacking him when he continued his act of quiet.

He bridled and glared at her. "What? What happened?"

"Wake up, silly, we have a dream to interpret!" she piped, grinning and nodding.

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Ugh, fine. What is it?"

"Pond in a secret garden. Can't see reflection in water, nor could Isla touch anything," Mother explained in a hurry. "Umm... ideas?"

"Sounds like Isla's worried about something," Andrew stated, sighing and returning his dim gaze to the newspaper. "She can't see the future and feels disconnected from the present."

Mother giggled, nudging him continuously while giving me a pointed look. "Wow, darling, look at your brother go! Isn't he genius? He's the height of wisdom!"

"You haven't set your height very high, then, have you Mom?" I pestered, grinning as she immediately reacted, feeling a need to defend her eldest child.

"Oh no, no, Isla! Your brother is a bright young man and is just fine with his ability to think, you know," she argued.

"Thanks mom," Andrew sighed mordantly. "I really needed you to defend me from Acorn."

Mother rolled her own blue eyes. "Oh, but it's a mother's duty to interfere! I don't know what I would do with myself, since you're searching for a job and Isla will be away at school again," she pouted.

"Mom, I don't know if you noticed, but it's really kind of sad when your exciting activity of the day is to break up our arguments," Andrew said, glancing at his watch. "Well, the time says that we have to get a move on. Ready to go, Acorn?"

I nodded, shoveling down the last slice of bacon and forcing a grin, my heart dancing in my chest. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"Great," he responded in a clipped tone, pushing his chair from the table and standing, walking with large strides towards the front door, the newspaper tucked underneath his arm. He filched his hat and zipped up his jacket, sneakers already laced to go.

I quickly dumped my plate in the sink, grabbing my backpack and trailing him to the direction of the door. Footsteps quickly patted behind me, a pair of long, endearing arms circling me and stopping me abruptly before the threshold. Andrew rolled his eyes and shook his head as Mother span me around, placing both hands on my upper arms and smiling sadly, leaning in to give me a kiss on the cheek as she said, "You'll do wonderfully. Be confident, because I know you love people, and these people will love you back. No fear, because your heart is here." She patted the region on my chest over my heart, the thing itself beating like a hammer against my ribs.

"Now," she continued. "Go get 'em, darling."

I grinned and gave her a quick hug. "Thanks, mom." Wheeling around, I headed out the door after Andrew, my older brother waiting for me in the driveway. The cold air bit into my skin as I joined him at his side, my cheeks and nose turning pink as I pulled on my fuzzy, new gloves. I wiggled my toes in my insulated boots, grinning, feeling energized and encouraged to face the day.

Andrew gave me a considering look as we began walking, the gray morning light shining down in rays through the clouds. The snow crunched beneath our feet, the sidewalk slightly slippery as he lead the way, myself walking in bursts of speed to match his pace. "So, Acorn, excited?" He didn't sound particularly interested in his rehearsed lines.

I gulped. "Well, I guess... More nervous than anything."

"Don't be," he injected, staring straight ahead as we began ascending the hill, the entire neighborhood eerily still as snowfall began to flutter from the sky. "You're the new girl, remember? People always think the new girl is cool. It's like any typical teenage novel beginning."

"Anything typical or not, I'm still nervous," I replied, glancing around to admire the frosty lawns.

Andrew sighed. "Acorn, you'll just have to get over it then."

I swallowed, pursing my lips. "Okay. I'll try."

"Now," he started, nodding in the direction of the top of the hill. "I've been given the duty of walking you to the bus-stop and picking you up until you gather your bearings. Apparently dad thinks I have nothing better to do with my time."

I giggled. "He's probably right."

Andrew gave me a snide, narrowed eye. "In any case, I might as well give you directions now."

"Sure, then," I agreed.

"It's at the top of the hill," he explained. "Walk to the top, and then take a left down Burnish Creek. Do you know what our own street is called?"

"Willowy Lane," I recited, feeling slightly indignant for paying attention to the maps.

"Good," he affirmed. "Anyway, take a left at the top of the hill and go down that street until you come to the intersection of Calm River and Burnish Creek. There, when you take a right at the stop sign, is where the bus will pick you up and drop you off in the mornings and evenings."

"Great..." I drawled, making a mental note to copy that into a list later during lunch.

"Do you have your schedule?" he pried. "Your lunch?"

I nodded, nudging my bag and patting my pocket. "I have both."

"And all your books? Your phone?"

I continued to nod. "Yes, I packed all of those last night."

He smiled down at me, flashing his pearly white teeth. "Good girl."

"What will you do while I'm at school?" I asked curiously.

He exhaled, shrugging. "Really, I'm supposed to be finding a job as a paramedic. Feels like it shouldn't be that hard, but I hate job hunting. I see procrastination in my future... But yes, job hunting, and working on this darn novel."

I smiled sweetly. "Oh. How's the 'darn' thing coming along, then?"

He wavered his hand like a scale. "So-so. I hate my main character with a passion and love my villain way too much. Not something ideal in a story."

"Sounds intriguing," I assured sportively. "When do I get to read it?"

"Never," he smirked.

I laughed as we rounded the corner at the top of our hill. "Wonderful!" I finally managed. "But why not?"

"I've made a vow that no family member of mine shall read anything I write while I'm still alive," he explained with a smug look. "It'll have to remain a secret to tempt you forever while I get it published under a pseudo-name and take all the money."

"Enjoy being a starving artist, then," I reassured, looking ahead to see some shapes come into view at a street-corner several houses down. I shyly shrank into Andrew's side, pursing my lips as I witnessed what I was sure was the bus-stop.

Behind a glaring red stop-sign stood a tall streetlight, underneath which where several different figures. My squinting stopped as we ventured closer, and I could make out a total of six people, standing solitarily in the snow, whispering snowflakes raining around them. Three hovered behind a couple who were horsing around, shoving and kicking each other, hearted laughter reaching my ears. The last figure stood alone by the stop-sign, faced away from the others, a pale face staring up the street, watching undoubtedly for the bus, almost unnoticed by his companions. Once we stopped at the opposite side of the street, pausing to watch for cars before Andrew tugged me across, I could make out the extent of the gaggle. Two blond males wrestled and grappled against each other, still laughing as they grabbed at each other's thick jackets, shoving and pushing and knocking heads like contesting bulls. Both males, young men but older than me by several years donned stubble, one with neat, teased hair and the other with wild, golden locks, both with wide smiles. The one with long hair was clearly taller and much bigger, broad shoulders thumping against his slimmer opponent like he was born to do so, wide blue eyes sparkling with the energy of the fight.

Watching them fight in the street from the curb were two more teenage boys, one thickly built with tightly curled, red hair and a beard next to a slim, darkened Asian boy with a brooding expression. Standing next to the Asian boy posed a black-haired, brown eyed girl with rivering midnight hair and a hard, focused expression to parallel the jovial one worn by the large, red-haired one.

"Get him, Tom!" shouted the red-haired boy to the taller, golden-haired boy. "Finley has needed his butt-kicking since his conception!"

Tom laughed victoriously as he managed to knock the smaller one, who I assumed to be Finley, to his back, standing over him and parading around like the winner of the Olympics. He leaned down with the largest grin and held out his hand. "And to that brother, I can say amen. I'll always be stronger than you."

"And bigger too!" Finley chuckled, accepting his open hand. Tom pulled him up as Finley clapped him on the shoulder. "You still growing, Tommy-boy?"

Tom held his chin back. "Grew four inches in the last month," he boasted, turning around to set his kind, proud gaze on my brother and I as we reached the curb. He raised both eyebrows and walked forward, greeting us with a nod and a curious smile. His followers quickly eyed us, Finley walking up behind Tom to study me intently.

"Well, hello there!" he smiled down at me, nodding towards my brother. "You two must be the new neighbors the suburbs have been gossiping about. My name is Tom, and this Finley, my cousin."

Andrew took both of their hands, shaking them courteously and forcing a smile. "Pleasure. I'm Andrew Selvig, and this is my sister, Isla."

I nervously held out my own hand for the taking, smiling earnestly and staring into their clear eyes. "Hi. I'm Isla."

Tom took my hand gently, but instead of shaking it, he lifted it to his lips and formally kissed it, pecking it softly and smiling down at me, his height extending above Andrew's, muscles tightening beneath his thin jacket. "The pleasure is mine to meet you, Isla."

I blushed furiously, biting my lip as I grinned dumbly. "Oh, well, I..."

Finley then stepped forward and repeated Tom's action with my hand, gripping it tightly. "Nice to meet you too, Miss Isla."

It took effort not to let my mouth gape in shock. Andrew suppressed laughter at my side, burying his mouth behind a hand.

"Don't let these boys and their formality catch you off-guard," a stubborn, accented voice warned, and the black-haired girl walked in behind Tom, giving him a sly smile before extending her own hand curtly and raising an eyebrow, her own two followers trailing to her side. "My name is Sofie, but you may call me Sif for short. And this is Vlad and Hayden."

The boys both waved at me, the red-haired one beaming with his rosy-red cheeks and thick eyebrows. "Brilliant," he pitched.

The Asian one only nodded, still emotionless as he said, "Pleasure."

"We're all cousins," Sif explained, gesturing back down the street. "We're staying with Tom for the rest of the school year until our parents come back. We live just down the road."

"So we'll be neighbors!" Finley smiled. "Make sure to pop by when you get a chance, will you?"

"I'll try," I assured, clasping my hands while Andrew kept silent.

"Which grade are you in, Isla?" Tom asked eagerly, eyes wide and hoping.

"I'm a junior," I answered. "What are you?"

Tom looked slightly disappointed as he responded, "We're all seniors."

Sif turned her darkened gaze to my brother, pulling the corner of her lips slightly. "And you, Andrew, which grade are you in?"

Andrew snapped back to reality and folded his arms across his chest. "I graduated last year. I'm really only just showing Isla to the bus-stop, but I'm glad to know I'll no longer be needed if she has neighbors to hang out with."

"She's welcome to our company anytime," Vlad consoled, smiling down at me. I smiled back, feeling heartened with their attitudes. These people where nice- I could enjoy sharing the stop with them, and maybe even a seat on the bus. Perhaps school wasn't such a bad thing after all.

"Well, I can't say that any of us will have a class with her," Finley lamented. "Horribly unfortunate how the grades scarcely mingle these days. We'll just have to see each other on the bus and during lunch, then!"

"That sounds good enough to me!" I comforted. "I can find other people to talk to during class. Well, that is, if I can talk during class."

Tom laughed, clutching his belly. "Not if you have Mrs. Spencer, the old hag!"

Sif studied me closely, narrowing her eyes in a pondering expression. "You don't look like you're a junior," she stated. "You look like a freshmen."

"Technically, she's supposed to be," Andrew cut-in, shoving me playfully. "She skipped two grades and now she's ahead. She turns sixteen in January."

Sif nodded, appearing impressed as she crossed her arms. "Interesting."

Wheels and brakes groaned from around the street-bend, a yellow school bus appearing as it rolled down the small hill, roaring to a halt before our small little gathering. Andrew gave me a small pat on the shoulder, nodding down to me as Tom strode to my side and took my hand confidently. "This is our ride," he grinned, squeezing my hand and entwining his fingers with my own.

I looked over my shoulder, waving to Andrew as Tom pulled me with the rest of his crew to the waiting, mechanical doors. I stumbled up the gridded steps, Tom leading me around the first row of seats as he pulled me to the back. Students sleepily relaxed in their own places, groggy and unwilling to go back to school on their unforgiving Monday. Finley walked proudly behind me, followed by a loyal Vlad, stiff Hayden, and then an elegant Sif. Tom sat me down in the seat across the aisle from his as Finley took the window spot to his own. Vlad and Hogun sat with Sif in the final row, Sif looking out the window. I looked out the window to glimpse Andrew one last time, my older brother waving affectionately and ceasing as the bus kicked into gear, jolting forward and grunting around the corner, old and squeaky.

Tom patted his knees and grinned over at me. "So, Isla," he began. "Where did you move from?"

"New Mexico," I answered, enjoying the introduction game I had begun to play with him, feeling eased with his enlightened tone and lax smile.

"And, why did you move to the city in Connecticut?" he pressed, giggling along with me blithely. Finley listened in from Tom's side while Vlad and Hayden carried their own quiet conversation behind me.

"My father was transferred to the University here to continue his research and my mother thought we needed a change of scene," I explained, grinning and glancing outside. "From desert to snow is definitely a new setting to grow in."

Tom laughed. "I'd imagine so. How are you liking it so far?"

I shrugged. "A lot better, I guess, now that I have met new people," I admitted. "Hiding out in my new room was starting to get lonely."

"Hey, make sure to come and visit anytime!" Tom insisted. "Also, remind me to show you around during lunch, okay? I make an excellent tour guide!"

Sif rolled her eyes as I cracked up. "Oh, Tom, I still have to show you to the bathroom at times! Besides, how can you lead the poor girl around when you forgot completely about your Algebra homework?"

Tom's face blanked, blinking as he turned and looked at her dumbly. "I had Algebra homework?"

Sif facepalmed. "Yes, dummy, you did."

Tom immediately panicked, grabbing his backpack from between his knees and digging through the main sleeve, shuffling until he pulled out a messy and beat-up old binder with _Algebra_ scribbled across the top, paling as he flipped open the front cover. He cursed, throwing a _God-I-Hate-You_ look at Sif as she turned red with laughter.

I grinned and left him with Finley to struggle over the paper, scratching away at it with a pencil. I turned back to face the front of the bus, sighing and settling back until I realized that I wasn't alone on my seat. I started and looked to my neighbor, the black-haired boy who had been secluded from the group, alone at the stop-sign. He was staring out the window, rigid and entranced, not heeding me any attention. I tried to see his face, but couldn't catch even a reflection in the glass of the window. His trench-coat collar was pulled up around his neck, his pale skin glistening, gloved hands folded in his lap, his satchel placed at his feet. Headphones were placed gently in his ears, the white cord leading down into his pocket. I pursed my lips, but didn't say anything. Whoever this was clearly had no intention of interacting with me.

I sighed, turning back to Tom, who was debating with Finley, his apparent tutor, on how to solve this equation and why none of it made any sense. "I don't understand!" Tom protested. "Why do you have to do it to both sides?"

"Because then it wouldn't be an equation, genius!" Finley snapped. "It'd be a freaking _expression!" _

I grinned at their argument. Seemed like these two couldn't last a minute without being at each other's throats in some form or another. "What's happening?"

"According to Tom, none of this makes any sense, and it hasn't been for the last three years we've tried to hand him Algebra," Sif explained, keeping her eyes pinned on her own book. "I swear, it's a miracle he's graduating at all."

Conscious of the passenger sitting next to me, I shifted and smiled. "Well, maybe I can help."

Tom flitted his attention to me. "Would you?" His blue eyes pleaded with mine.

"Yes, please!" Finley begged. "I can't teach him crap!"

"Well then," I smiled, leaning forward. "I guess I'll have a look."


	2. Boy From the Bus

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

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><p><strong>Two- Boy From the Bus<strong>

"I still don't understand..." Tom sighed, gazing vulnerably down at the paper we had been scrawling over for the last half hour. "But, thank you, Isla Selvig. You performed admirably."

I grinned at the crestfallen boy. "No problem- wasn't much of a performance really. I'll tutor you whenever I can, okay?" I promised.

Tom nodded as the bus pulled to a stop at another intersection, picking up three more students to add to our already nearly full bus. Everyone shared a seat by now. "Sounds like a plan," he beamed. My heart skipped a beat and I giggled. Tom was truly all smiles.

The snow was starting to fall in thicker waves outside the bus, the temperature dropping as the vehicle's heaters struggled to compensate. The students around me, all ages and sizes, were whispering amongst themselves, busily chattering as friends reunited with friends and the tepid atmosphere lightened. Sif was arguing with Vlad about something obscure while Finley and Tom started to talk quietly between them, Finley shooting me a quick glance before laughing with a blushing Tom. I only returned my gaze to my own hands, sneaking side-glances at the boy sitting at my own side. He was slouched over the window now, relaxed and slowly breathing, probably asleep. I still couldn't see his face, his black hair glistening with a dark, mahogany shine, slick and well groomed for a teenage boy. His clear skin, wan as snow-white like the frost crawling along the window, almost sparkled in the dim light. I smiled to myself and pulled my knees against my chest, clutching my ankles and attempting to relax. The bus jerked, his head slamming against the window roughly, but he didn't stir. I bit my lip and raised a suspicious eyebrow. _What a deep sleeper. _

The bus began to crest one last hill, students wearing heavy winter clothing trudging along the sidewalks in small clusters, all ranging in deep, cold colors and reds. I straightened as the people on the bus began to collectively become active, a large, expanding building slipping into view. I felt Tom tap my shoulder, turning to meet his bright gaze.

"We're here," he announced, shoving his binder in his bag and zipping up the sides.

Finley stretched, groaning and yawning. "Ugh, I hate Mondays," he grunted, rubbing his eyes. Vlad laughed heartedly, Sif wearing her hard, concentrating look.

"Ah, Finley, when will you ever learn never to pull all-nighters?" he chuckled.

Finley glared at him proudly. "No, I didn't stay up all night! I only stayed up till eleven. That's hardly late!"

I laughed with Tom. "Finley, I go to bed at eight! On the dot!" I reprimanded, Tom gently grinning with me. "It's not like that's too early, is it?" I enjoyed feeding into the teasing and the giggling.

Finley gaped at me. "Eight? You're serious?"

"As I'll ever be," I replied.

He looked stunned, as if I had revealed to him I was an alien from Mars. "How do you go to bed that early?"

"It's not early, it's practical," Sif defended as the bus pulled to a halt. The students hurried up to their feet all at once as the brakes engaged, air shooting from compressors in the engine and the suspension hissing. "Now come on, dummies, time for school."

Tom reached for my hand, the question in his eyes ending as I obliged him, allowing him to pull me in tow through the herds of students all pushing to get out all at once, my bag swinging from my shoulder. Hayden and Finley had some scuffle over stepping on each other's feet while Sif strode proudly behind me, leaning towards my ear and whispering, "Oh the delights of boys, if they'll ever learn."

I looked back at her and giggled. "They're fun, aren't they? You're so lucky to live with them! My brother hardly interacts with me at all!"

She smiled indignantly. "If only I did have brothers who ignored me, or were at least the slightest bit sensible."

"I'd take fun over smart in any rate!" I boasted, laughing with her as we hopped from the bus, Tom catching me briefly as I stumbled down the last step, eyes merry. The other three boys regrouped with Sif and skipped to our sides, Tom leading me along through the crowds of students arriving. I looked towards the school building, the main one branching into several different sub-buildings lettered and numeraled. All was made from white stone, bricked upon each other and cemented into large square clusters interrupted by oblong windows.

Tom snickered as he watched me stare at my new school building. "It's not much, but it's school," he shrugged.

"I think it's great!" I piped, smiling dumbly. "I mean, it's much more grand than my other school. My old school was just one building made from red brick."

"Sounds homely," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

"But not sophisticated," I retorted playfully, squeezing his hand. I turned to my side to see Finley eagerly hanging onto my words, slipping my arm through the crook in his elbow and mirroring it with Tom's. "So, where do we go first?"

They both chorused something together, but the words clashed and I entirely missed whatever they had said. I frowned but smiled. "I beg your pardon?"

Sif butted in from behind, squeezing between Finley and I. "Finley offered to go to the cafeteria while Tom immediately suggested the library. However, as the only other girl in the group, I think it would be smart to show you around to your first class. The bus was a little bit later than usual, so we only have really about ten minutes to kill, but since we'll be doing senior stuff, we won't be able to show you around otherwise."

I nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed as Vlad opened the door for us. "That sounds logical, I guess..." I said weakly as I was pulled into the main building, a large series of staircases enveloping the space in the middle, twisting up to the second story and forking out into different hallways in different directions, students rushing about and hurrying to their first class. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my schedule, standing near the wall that Tom had lead to me while his cousins crowded around, reading from behind my shoulder. Vlad was the first to comment.

"Ack, you poor thing! You _do_ have Mrs. Spencer!" he lamented.

"When?" Sif asked.

Finley pointed to my third period class of the day. "There. Trigonometry."

"She's in trigonometry?" Tom gasped.

"Well, yeah," I admitted shyly, looking at the schedule and scanning the classes. In order; Physics, Photography, Trigonometry, English, PE, Art, an off period, and then Economy. It was an ordinary schedule to follow, with four classes a day (the first four one, and the next four the next), each class an hour and a half long, with an hour lunch, school out at four, five minute passing periods, with a school start of eight-twenty.

"Well, since you'll be heading to Physics first, might as well lead you there," Sif sighed, grabbing my elbow and towing me in the direction of the staircases. Tom ran up behind us, waving back to Finley, Vlad, and Hayden.

I knitted my brow in confusion. "Are they not coming?" I asked.

Tom gave me an apologetic smile. "Hayden had to turn something in. Those three will see you again at lunch if they don't have any sports practice to do, anyway," he explained cheerfully.

I nodded, feeling less left out. "Oh, okay." Sif lead me up the stairs, releasing her grip once we rounded the top. I almost ran into several people in the process, receiving snide looks and several pitiful ones from people who didn't recognize my face, but knew me as the new girl. Tom nodded and greeted his other friends, people whom I didn't know but who didn't hesitate to be cordial towards me, the girl shyly hiding at Sif's side. Continually towed through the hallways, we finally stopped before a door labeled PHYSICS/CHEMISTRY at the top, decorated around the lintel with paintings of vectors and graphs and atoms and test-tubes full of bubbling green fluids. I smiled at the comedic approach while Tom lead me inside. The classroom was small and flat, with posters littering the walls of graphs and charts on one side and formulas and chemicals on the other, slate tables forming rows that lead up to the chalkboard sectioned off by a desk stacked with papers and one laptop. In the front table sat a small brown-haired girl, pouring over her notebook and reciting something quietly to herself. I didn't see a teacher in sight.

We stood there awkwardly for a moment before Tom put forth the first move, clearing his throat. The girl instantly turned around, glasses balancing on her small nose, brown eyes shining as they suddenly widened. She pushed back from her seat immediately and smoothed down her hair, struggling with her first few words. "Oh, I, um, hi, I guess..." she stammered nervously. "If- if you're looking for Mr. Clark he- he'll be back in a little while if you want to wait..."

Tom shook his head, smiling graciously at the nervous girl. "Oh no, it's fine. We're just dropping off Miss Isla to her first class. It's her first day." Sif rolled her eyes as the girl's face went blank.

"Isla?" she asked, looking suddenly towards me. "You mean, Isla Selvig?"

Tom frowned as he tried to hold his smile, putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder as I gulped and nodded. "I'm Isla Selvig."

The girl suddenly got up, a broad smile on her face, accidentally knocking her notebook to the floor clumsily as she staggered up to me, holding out her hand and jittering excitedly. "Oh, wow, this is sooo cool! Well, I mean, sorry, I'm Jane! Jane Foster. Our dads are working together to do research at the University?"

I nodded, taking her hand and grinning. "Yes, hi. My dad told me about you."

"As of you!" she chirped, glancing at Tom and blushing. "Sorry, it's just that I think your dad is amazing and all of his work in particle fields and nuclear fission is wonderful!"

I giggled at her disposition. "Well, if you say so."

"Oh, but it truly is! You're sooo lucky to have a father like him! And I hear that you're smart too! Fifteen, huh? That's great!" she continued, bubbling like a water fountain. "I'm a senior, but I'm a teacher aide in this class so I'll get to be with you for the rest of the year."

"Good luck Isla," Sif muttered underneath her breath, prompting a curt kick from a peeved but polite Tom.

"So, you can sit next to me if you'd like?" she offered all too hopefully.

"Sure," I smiled. "I'd love to!"

"Oh, well then, great!" she grinned, erubescent as she snuck another look at Tom.

Tom sighed as the silence dragged on a little bit too long and gave a thumb's up. "So, then, that's done! See you at lunch, Isla?" he asked, begging me desperately with his crystalline blue eyes.

I nodded, smiling and quickly glancing at Jane. "Sure! I think I'm in good hands until then," I reassured.

He nodded and grinned. "Okay. Good." He gazed quietly over at Jane, Sif squirming and impatient to leave. "Thank you and have fun, Janet."

Jane pursed her lips and looked down, replying quietly, "It's Jane..."

He kept his smile but blinked. "Oh, right. Sorry... Well, thanks, and take care of her, Jaimie Forager." He then turned and pulled Sif with an imaginary tug behind him, leaving us in the quiet, lonely classroom.

Jane was staring at the floor, bright red, breathing quietly to herself, "Jane Foster, please, it's Jane Foster..."

I smiled grimly and gave her a small pat on the shoulder. "I'm sure he didn't mean it. I've only just met Tom, but can safely assure you that he can be a little bit dim at times."

Jane looked up at me and nervously laughed. "Oh, yes, well, can't they all?" She quickly trotted back to her desk, picking up her notebook, flustered and letting her stiff smile abandon itself when she thought I wasn't looking.

I strode up to her side, slowly situating myself down in the chair next to hers as people started to gather into the classroom, sitting in their own seats. I pursed my lips while she started again on her private studying, resolving to break the silence with this girl, deeming her probably just as nervous as I was.

"Hey, so, what are we studying so far in this class?" I asked curiously, shifting in my seat and pulling out my physics binder and pencil bag. I eyed my sketchbook warily, resisting the temptation to pull it out as well.

Jane looked up and smiled at me, drumming her fingers over her paper anxiously. "Well, we just finished covering why a perpetual motion machine isn't possible on Earth, and I think we're about to start our brief lesson on wheels and axles..."

I nodded. "Okay. Sounds about where I was," I lied. I had passed the unit three weeks ago.

A tall, skinny, dirty-brown haired man with thick-rimmed glasses and a button-down shirt strode into the classroom, an ID badge hanging from his front pocket and a pencil tucked behind his ear. He blinked and smiled at his students, but otherwise indifferent as he took his place in the front of the classroom, stopping to frown at me in confusion. "I don't remember you being in my class," he stated, cocking his head slightly sideways as he crossed his arms.

I shook my head but straightened and smiled. "Oh, no sir, my name is Acacia Selvig, but I like to go by Isla," I greeted. "I've just moved from New Mexico. I'm a new student."

He wrinkled his nose. "Huh."

Jane bubbled beside me. "Her father is Dr. Erik Selvig! Isn't that wonderful, Mr. Clark?"

Mr. Clark looked back to me, brown eyes unaffected. "Perhaps, then, she's another smarticle-particle like you, Jane. And you know the rule- no two all A stars can sit next to each other, especially since you're my teacher aide, so Acacia will have to find another place to sit."

Jane's bright face automatically fell. "But, Mr. Clark-"

"My word is final," he snapped, sighing and turning towards his desk, plopping down before the small desktop screen and hammering away at the keyboard. "Help Acacia find a new seat." The computer light glowed against his glasses.

Jane pouted and gave me a sulky expression, slumping her shoulders dejectedly. "Well, I almost got away with it..."

I shook my head and smiled. "Oh, no, don't worry about it. I wouldn't want to get you into trouble. I'll be fine."

"You're sure?" she asked hesitantly. "Because if I can talk to him..."

"No, honestly, it's fine," I assured. Shoving my binder back into my backpack, I looked around, sweeping the classroom with a long gaze, searching for a new seat. Most of the desks were full, two partners side by side as they chattered amongst themselves, a handful throwing me curious looks as they pointed and murmured.

I shouldered my bag and walked up to Mr. Clark's desk, resigning to confront him, Jane's eyes following me sadly. He halted his typing and looked over the brim of his glasses, blinking. "May I help you?" he droned.

I took in a deep breath. "I was wondering if you could assign me a new seat, sir, since the one I did have has been deemed off limits?" I asked, attempting to be cautious in my manner and sweet in my tone.

He exhaled through his nose and glanced at his seating chart, standing up rigidly and walking down several of the rows of seats until he stopped at the somewhere in the back of the classroom, tapping the right hand side of one of the last few tables unoccupied. "This one," he said, drawing the attention of some of the other students. "No on else sits here."

I nodded rigidly, taken off guard that I was to be alone, but was silently grateful for the solitude, quickly walking up to it and sitting down, Mr. Clark exchanging places with me and heading to the chalkboard, shutting the door in the process as the last few pupils ran inside, sliding into their own desks and pulling out their binders and calculators. The bell rung and class began.

Mr. Clark put both hands in his jean pockets, pacing slightly as the class settled down. I reached down and brought out my binder and pencil case, still receiving slight stares from my peers. "So, class," Mr. Clark began. "Hope you all had a tolerable weekend. I know I didn't. Damn snow."

The class snickered.

He gave a small half-grin and continued. "So, as some of you probably already know, we have a new student. Acacia, please stand."

He gestured to me, the class following the direction of his extended fingers, pinning me with their eyes. I stiffly stood up, clenching and unclenching my fists as I forced a smile. "Hi."

"Where are you from, Acacia?" he asked for the class.

I swallowed harshly. "New Mexico. I moved last Friday."

"Sounds brilliant," he exhaled. "Also, Acacia, don't take it too personally when I don't call you Isla. I call everyone by their proper names to avoid going with the stupid nicknames they've tried to feed me this year. But class, call her Isla, and I expect you to make her feel welcome. You may take a seat, Acacia."

Some people whispered my middle-name in reiteration, all still staring at me as I sat back down, the sudden urge to hide dissipating as they turned back to face the chalkboard.

Mr. Clark changed topics. "So, anyway, as a happy Monday greeting to everyone, I've decided that we'll watch a movie about Newton's three laws of motion. However, there's some video guide questions so that you don't all slack off, talk, or fall asleep, and expect the material to be on next week's test, too."

The class groaned, annoyed that what they thought had been a reprieve from learning was swiped away as he proceeded to pass out sheets of paper with four or five questions on them. He handed me my own once he had reached the back, giving me a pointed look as I read the questions. They were all incredibly easy, full of common sense and facts that I had memorized since the fourth grade. I took out my pencil as he hit the lights, dimming the classroom to nearly pitch black save for some Christmas lights around the tops of his bookshelves, and he started to project the movie onto the overhead screen.

I scribbled down the answers in my neatest writing, dated it, wrote my name at the top and then pushed it aside, not paying attention as the movie progressed. I filched out my sketchbook and turned to a blank page, sitting back, wondering what images to record. My hand started moving instinctively when I thought about the morning, and how things had gone so far. I thought of Tom, and of Sif and Finley, and Vlad and Hayden, sketching each of their faces, all hinting of their primary expressions and different actions, recording a brief comic of Andrew reading the newspaper while Mother badgered me about my morning. I stopped when I drew Tom's hand in mine as I had met a blushing Jane, inscribing her face in the background, feeling guilty for Tom's thickness to show whenever she tried to speak with him.

Amidst the messy sketchdump I had created to already span across two pages, I left out a small fourth of the last page, staring at the blank paper, wondering what to do with it. I started shading shapes and edging it out, letting my hand do all the work, listening to the movie's cheesy, horrible music in the background as it explained inertia. My eyelids drooped as I worked and I sighed, halting to study what I had created. It looked nonsensical at first and I inwardly growled in frustration, deeming it my worst drawing of the morning, the lines and the black graphite shading never making sense as they converged and diluted into a scrawly splatter. I squinted through the dark, trying to take a better look at it, wondering what I had drawn until my heart started thumping in my chest as I realized what my memory had instinctively created.

The boy in black. The one whom I had sat next to on the bus unwittingly. The one I had seen at the bus-stop but never bothered with, with no name, no face to memorize, no friendliness- not even a word spoken to or from him.

I looked down at my rough sketch and began to see his thick black trenchcoat, his face hidden as it was turned away from me, a sharp jawline ending down to parallel high, pronounced cheekbones, onyx hair combed back and shining, brilliant white skin glistening in the pale light streaming from the window, leather-gloved hands in his lap, his satchel at his feet, a dark green scarf wrapped around his slender neck, headphones in his ears as he sat, or slept, oblivious to the world.

I pondered it momentarily before I tried to fix it, fleshing him out, breathing him to life with every new pencil stroke. I tried to make him into himself once more, but my memory struggled to get it right. My hand shook, the lines never coming out correctly, something entirely missing from the image. It looked like him, but it _wasn't _him. Something about the entire picture felt wrong and I couldn't place it, heaving a sigh as I let my book fall shut, abandoning the task for now. I promised myself I would either see him again tonight on the bus-ride home or during the following mornings, and would be able to affirm the image in my mind and fix the sketch later. A hollow feeling in my chest nagged me, my hands shaking, my throat burning, my mind seething at the failure. I hated not getting the sketch right, feeling that it was more personal than anything at the moment, and brooded over the fact that I hated it, vowing to amend it all later.

The lights suddenly switched on and the movie ended, the class stirring and whispering and bringing me out of my daze, my thoughts dissolving as I quickly snapped my sketchbook shut and pushed it into my backpack, zipping it up and adding my pencil case. Mr. Clark walked about, shutting his laptop and bringing the class further out of our lethargic stupor.

"Everyone, pass your papers forward," he said, sighing with darkened eyes as we all sent waves of paper heading towards him, Jane scampering up to collect and sort the piles neatly, handing in the final stack. Once he had filed them into a manila folder, he turned back to us and continued. "We have about three more minutes left of class, but I would like to reaffirm that your choice project is due in three weeks, so the clock is counting down, people. Come by and ask me questions during lunch when you have time. Have a good day."

The class slowly stood up, some people walking around and meeting with their friends, all relieved that they had about a two minutes till five minutes of freedom. I gathered my belongings and stood up, grabbing my new red scarf from my backpack and wrapping it around my neck to conserve warm, hiding out in the back of the classroom, looking down while I waited for the dismissal of the bell. Someone cleared their throat, and I look up to find Mr. Clark standing on the other side of my desk, his arms crossed and his expression hard. "So, how was your first lesson, Acacia?"

I nodded, smiling sweetly. "Well, thank you. I thought the topics the movie discussed where interesting."

He nodded. "Mmhmm. Well, that's good and all, but perhaps you would care to explain why you never paid attention at all during its extent?" he pried, raising one eyebrow.

I paled, feeling faint heat in my cheeks while I fidgeted underneath his dark gaze, his young face and tossed hair glittering in the florescent light. "I...I..."

Mr. Clark sighed and looked down, letting his hands fall to his side. "Let me see whatever you were drawing, Acacia," he ordered, lifting one hand and leaving it splayed and wide.

I hesitantly let my bag swing forward and I opened the top sleeve, pulling out my sketchbook and turning it open to the pages I have been decorating, slowly handing it over to him fearfully, nervous about what he would think of me to be drawing random images of different people he probably didn't know, blurred images that sometimes hardly made sense to even I.

He took it and scrutinized the pages, running his fingers over the sketches before looking up through his eyelashes at me, giving me a skeptical look. "You drew these during the movie?"

I blushed, feeling flustered and ashamed. "I'm so sorry, sir, I just- I already knew the material and I was sitting in the back, and I did complete the questions early and gave extensive answers and thought that I could use the time to process my morning. Drawing helps me work everything out in my head, and I-"

He interrupted me. "Acacia, you aren't in trouble in your first class of a new school," he said, snapping my sketchbook shut and handing it back to me. "I was merely curious as to what you found more enticing to do then watch a movie. Most kids would watch the movie just because, whereas you found something more productive for yourself to do. Why?"

I bit my lip. "Well, I guess I'm just not like most kids. I prefer doing something to doing nothing," I sheepishly replied. "I thought I could draw in this place because it would be safe for me to do so."

Mr. Clark nodded, giving me a small smile. "Well, you're a becoming young artist, if I may say so, and if you find the material not challenging enough, feel free to talk to me later on and we can arrange for you a more rigorous curriculum," he offered kindly.

Despite his demeanor, I was starting to come to respect Mr. Clark and his ways. He was an intelligent young man and had caught me off-guard in all accounts. I smiled up at him. "Thanks, sir, but I'll see how it goes for a little while longer before I decide that."

He nodded, biting his lip. "What class do you have next?"

I checked the schedule from my pocket as the bell rung, students filing from the classroom into the busied and loud hallway outside. "Photography," I answered.

"Do you know how to get there?" he continued, eyebrow raised.

I shook my head shyly. "No, sir."

He nodded but gave me a reassuring pat on the back as we both walked towards the door. "It's quite simple to get there from this hallway. You know the stairs you came up to get here?"

I nodded.

He gave a small smile. "Well, go back down them and then go in the far left hallway on the bottom floor. It'll be one of the last doors down, closest to the double doors leading to the soccer fields," he explained. "I hope you enjoy learning with Ms. Greene. She's a nice lady."

I smiled up at him, stopping at the door. "Thank you, Mr. Clark."

His eyes flickered behind his glasses as he gave a slighted grin. "Anything, kid," he affirmed. I nodded and turned on my heels, heading down the hallway in the direction of the staircase Sif had shown me up earlier. The hallway was crowded, with students opening their lockers in a hurry and walking with fast pace into classrooms, some of them stopping and meeting with their friends, laughing and catching up after the weekend. I kept my head down and my arms crossed, walking with my own temperament down the hallway until I rounded the corner leading to the main stairwell, beginning to walk down when I heard a shrill voice call my name, "Isla!"

I turned around, stepping up to the second story once more as I saw Jane run up to me, panting as she skidded to a stop and inhaled drastically. "Huh, well, hi again!" she gasped between breaths. "I wanted to welcome you once more to our school."

I smiled at her, a few people bumping into me as I stood in the middle of traffic to meet with her, a reassuring hand on the railing. "Thanks, Jane. It was great to finally meet you."

"Yeah, you too!" she chirped. "But, hey, I was wondering if we could hang out later sometime? You know, like, you guys could come over for dinner sometime at my house if you wanted to..." She looked down and blushed.

I nodded and laughed. "Yes, likewise to you!"

She grinned hopefully. "Really? Well, okay then! Cool! Seeya!" She skipped off in the other direction, leaving me with a small smile on my face as I turned back, starting back down the stairs, thinking of how much she was probably looking forward to me bringing my dad over to her house. It felt good to know what someone besides my brother and I looked up to our dad, and having Jane make that admiration vocal was kind of her. I got the feeling that she was a shy girl that mainly kept to herself, and if anything was slightly geeky, but I liked her all the same. I added the delightful Jane Foster to the list of people I wanted to become friends with. I blinked and held my chin a little bit higher, averting my eyes from the ground and pulling my scarf tighter around my neck as I neared the bottom of the stairs, Jane's character making me feel slightly more confident in myself.

I placed my foot down, but where I was supposed to feel the flat support of a tiled stair I felt nothing, my heel catching on my current step as I tilted forward, unable to keep my balance any longer. For a brief moment, my heart froze and the world stood entirely still, adrenaline rushing through my veins in a sudden burst of speed as I fell crashing forwards, time speeding up as I collided with another tall, firm, warm body and tumbled to the ground, rolling down the last few stairs and tangling with the person I had crashed into. I squeezed my eyes, unable to control anything as the person I had taken down with me and I went thumping down to halt on the ground floor, the air knocked from my screaming lungs as I was planted by gravity against my other victim. I coughed and gasped, choking as my scarf constricted me uncomfortably, air suddenly impossible to get. I blacked in and out, my head throbbing and pounding as I opened my eyes, my vision slurred as I waveringly sat back up, straddling whoever was beneath me, dizzy as I rocked forwards and backwards, fingers fumbling for the scarf around my neck. Whoever was under me wrapped their hands beneath my armpits and picked me from their pelvis, rolling me over and shucking the scarf from my neck, oxygen suddenly rushing to my lungs, my heart thundering in my chest as I could abruptly breathe again, my head hitting the floor as I let it fall backwards. I blinked continuously, vision quickly coming back to me as I strained my vision, choking on my new air. I struggled for a clear breath as I looked up to see who I had landed on, my mind slowly registering what was happening, blood rushing to my head as reality hit me like a battering ram.

A pair of bright, iridescent green eyes leveled with mine, a gaze that was dark and penetrating, sable eyelashes framing them and leading out to an angular bone structure and pallid skin. I zeroed in on the face, the now messy black hair that was combed backwards behind a broad forehead, shining in the lights, a black trenchcoat disjointed around a neat button down collared tee, a thick green scarf wrapping around his pale neck, leather-gloved hands clutching the very own red scarf that had been threatening to strangle me earlier. It all hovered over me as I lay down on my back, his eyes shocked, expectant, and if anything, worried.

My heart hammered against my ribcage, my mind screaming as I realized who I had crashed into.

_The boy from the bus. _

I shot up, pushing myself away from him as I wobbled to my feet, taking in the small crowd of stunned spectators who had collected in a circle around us and our scene. They were asking me questions, I was sure of it, but I didn't hear them. I could only look at his eyes, his face, and suddenly put that to the image of whenI had first seen him on the bus, at the bus-stop, always staring out and away. Warmth eased across my cheeks, my face burning with an oncoming blush as I recognized what I had done, who I had fallen against, and I did what my only my instinct could command me to do.

I ran away, pummeling in the direction of photography class, leaving the boy in black behind with my scarf.


	3. Photography

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

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><p><strong>Three- Photography<strong>

My lungs burned, my backpack slamming against my shoulders as I tore through the crowds, weaving between confused peers as I stumbled in the direction I prayed dearly lead to my salvation. My heart thundered in my chest, my face feeling bright red and uncomfortably warm, the jacket over my shoulders suddenly feeling constricting, air once more hard to get. I skidded to a halt, staggering briefly while I regained my balance, bracing myself against my immense embarrassment while I steadied myself with a hand against the locker.

I leaned down, inhaling and exhaling, trying to control myself, wondering if that had really just happened. Had I really just run over the boy I sat next to this morning? A boy who lived close by, most likely? On my first day of school? I was in denial, but the ache in the back of my head said otherwise. I glanced at the watch on my wrist and wrinkled my nose, realizing that I only had one more minute until class was to start. I tilted my head back and look ahead, pushing off the locker and walking unsteadily forward, reading the words emblazoned above the classroom doors, looking for photography. A young, red-haired woman rocked back and forth on her heels, smiling broadly and folding her hands before her, looking down to admire her bright red nails as I approached her timidly.

"Er, excuse me ma'am," I began shyly, bringing out my schedule to complete the appearance.

She looked up, her eyes wide and expectant. "Yes?"

"Do you know where I can find Photography?" I asked, a little bit unsure of myself, still dazed from crashing into someone much taller than myself and light-headed from nearly choking. "This is my first day here and I'm struggling to find my classes."

The woman smiled and then giggled. "Yes, you must be Isla Selvig, am I correct?" She put her hand out for shaking, white teeth glistening in the light. "I'm Ms. Greene, and welcome to Photography!"

Relieved, I shook her hand as she lead me inside, the bell ringing as we neared her desk. The room had a different atmosphere to rival Mr. Clark's, with gray and lilac walls and neatly arranged, framed black and white photos. The desks were individual and set out into columns, a little more crowded than Mr. Clark's with nearly every desk full, save for a couple randomly scattered out. The surfaces were immaculate, computers lining the edges of the room, printers assorted in accessible places. Ms. Greene struck as the woman to be organized. Her students followed me with their curious gazes, several whispering among them as they stood about, hardly any of them in their assigned seats, but they drifted to their proper places when Ms. Greene gave them a reprimanding smirk. I took a brief glance of the room before hugging my schedule to me, loathing being in the spotlight once more.

Ms. Greene filched a camera from her maple desk drawer, tapping up to me in her ballet flats and briefly straightening her tunic-style dress before handing it to me, turning to the class and smiling. "Class, I'd like you all to meet Isla Selvig! She'll be our new student for the rest of the semester. I'm sure she has questions for you guys, but for right now, why not ask her some questions yourselves?"

The class quieted down and shifted, an agonizing silence sinking in before a small, dark-haired girl raised her hand hesitantly. Ms. Greene immediately perked and gestured to her. "Yes, Darcy?"

The small girl shifted, but didn't look particularly interested as she asked, "Where are you from?"

"New Mexico," I responded, smiling and nodding.

A fit, square-faced jock raised his hand slowly, immediately being picked by the cheerful Ms. Greene, inspecting me like a pig for slaughter. "Uh, why'd you move?"

"My father was invited here for a teaching and research position at the University and my mother wanted us to come along," I replied flatly, the answer feeling exhausted and rehearsed. I'd lost count on how many times I'd had to introduce myself just in the last three days. The questions were beginning to lack little flare.

A manicured, cheer-leading type girl with relaxed hair and a face painted with make-up shot her hand up, smacking the gum she was chewing obnoxiously. She began speaking before Ms. Greene could call on her. "So, I heard that your dad is like this boring physics professor, and that's good and all, and your mom like doesn't work at all, and that you like have a hot older brother, and I so yeah, I was wondering-"

Ms. Greene cut-in with an uneasy smile. "Ashlee, unless you have an actual question, I would refrain those comments until we go outside or start working," she advised, giving me a tense laugh.

Ashlee brooded, slumping back and pouting as she gave a disbelieving, annoyed look to her pack of friends.

"So, my wonderful learners!" Ms. Greene continued, clapping her hands together. "We have an agenda to stick too! Isla, why don't you take a seat next to Connor, who'll give you a brief catch-up on our project, and then I'll turn you all loose on the school to continue taking your pictures! Connor, please raise your hand."

A short, brown haired boy with oval glasses, a blemished face, and a raggedy tee shirt raised his hand, the camera strapped down his neck and several binders and folders dumped on his desk. I quickly strode over to the desk next to him and sat down as the class began to busy themselves, taking out their cameras, asking each other questions, and reviewing a rubric of what material they needed to have. I got out my binder, placed the camera before me, and smiled over at Connor, who was staring at me with a raised eyebrow.

I continued to smile, a little uncomfortable under his intense gaze, and cleared my throat. "So, what's our assignment, Connor?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes and opened up one of his binders, revealing file after file of photographs and notes, including charts and guides to different styles in which to take a picture. "Look, I know that you're new here and don't have a clue what's going on, but I work by myself and have a strict to-do-list to stick to, so I'll cut to the chase. Get a rubric of the list of photos and styles you need to have from around the school and your home, it's all due in two weeks, get a pass and just roam around. Good day," he snapped and got up, bringing the binder with him as he grabbed one of the pre-signed hall-passes and pushed out through the door.

Taken back and slightly stunned, I rubbed my temple and set my backpack beside my seat, slipping my camera around my neck and walking up to a side desk with stack of papers on it. I briefly searched for the rubric, finally finding it after the small girl, Darcy, pointed to it. I smiled at her and then grabbed a hall-pass like I had seen Connor do, nodding towards Ms. Greene and following the group of students leaving out into the hallway.

Once out, I looked around before I started back in the directions of the stairs, curious of my scarf and wondering if the boy had left it there. My footsteps clapped against the vast walls like a staccato beat, the hallways now surprisingly empty compared to how they had been during passing period and the ten minutes before school. But when I arrived to the foot of the stairwell, I saw nothing but the plain tile floor. No hint of an accident, no hint that anyone had fallen down just minutes earlier.

Slightly annoyed, I exhaled and wandered around, searching the lower floor for an office for which there might've been a lost and found. I read the signs on the doors, relieved when I finally found something. I entered through the open doorway to a large waiting room, desks sectioning off the back while a gathering of cushioned chairs seated two Gothic looking boys, bruised and slightly bloodied, as if they had been in a fight, a concerned looking mother, and a few sick looking others. I walked to the front desk, easily attracting the attention of the clerk, who peered up through her half-moon glasses and gave me a tired smile.

"My I help you?" she drawled.

"I'm looking for the lost and found," I answered, a little unsure, feeling awkward for my voice to be the only one in the room. Several pairs of eyes burned on the back of my neck and I instinctively stiffened.

She directed her gaze to a large cardboard box labeled as such in the far corner of the room. I thanked her and headed in its direction, looking down and checking the contents. I pushed through the layers of clothing and old lunchboxes, even several binders, but saw nothing of my scarlet scarf. I bit my lip, thanked the clerk again, and walked out, navigating my way slowly until I was routed back to Photography, passing the stairwell until I heard voices, low and whispering, interrupted from their conversation as a girl giggled uncontrollably. I paused and glanced to my side, seeing a couple of students grouped underneath the stairs, laughing and whispering together, but their voices carried in the otherwise silence hallway.

"I know, right?" one of the boys snickered. "And she just left him there with the stupid scarf."

I went rigid and turned bright red, suddenly realizing what their conversational topic was.

The girl who had tried talking to me earlier, Ashlee, laughed and smacked one of the jocks playfully on the arm, her camera forgotten at her feet. "Ohmygod, how weird is this girl going to be? If I had fallen on top of him, I wouldn't have left in such a hurry. I mean, I wouldn't have like left at all!"

I shook my head slowly and started back in the direction of Photography, suddenly desperate to leave, feeling like a complete idiot, my face still bright red. I clenched my hands into fists and crossed my arms over my chest, keeping my head low as I trudged back to Photography, letting loose the breath I didn't realize I had been holding when I saw Darcy framing and focusing her camera on a specific, damaged locker, bent inwards in the middle. I slowed to a halt a couple feet from her, feeling flustered and irritable when Darcy started to speak.

"You know you should ignore Ashlee and her herd of cows, right?" Darcy droned, focusing the camera and clicking to take the picture, letting it fall to her chest as she gave me a questioning look.

I pursed my lips, taken back. "I..."

Darcy flipped her hair out of her face, adjusting her dark jacket and plaid hat while she narrowed an eye at me. "They make up crap all the time."

I shook my head and rubbed my temple. "I'm just a little bit confused right now, that's all. Normal first day of school stuff."

"Hell, do most normal first days of school start by running over one of the more silent students in our grade?" she asked suspiciously with a raised eyebrow. "You know how to make an entrance, that's for sure."

I looked away, pursing my lips. "I didn't mean to."

"Course you didn't," she replied curtly, raising her camera to take a picture of me looking away, bright red. There was a click and I flinched, Darcy smiling in amusement. "Tons of people saw it, so don't assume that it won't travel around lightly."

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "Well, at least that's what I'll be known for now. How wonderful..." I mumbled, averting my gaze to the floor.

Darcy stood with me in silence, smacking her lips before grabbing my elbow. "Come on. I can't let you stand there looking all pathetic."

"Where are we going?" I asked, confused but reluctantly willing to let her drag me out the double doors at the far end of the hallway, walking out into an expansive sporting area of different fields covered in snow and wilted school gardens.

"Here," she stated, letting me go and giving me a small smile. "This is the best place to clear your head. A lot of people don't come out here at all to take pictures, so you won't be bothered. Not all of us like the snow. Good day." With that, she turned tail and headed back inside without a second glance.

I smiled after her, slipping on my gloves and pulling out my beanie, adjusting myself for the cooler weather and gripping my camera in both hands, grateful to be alone. Darcy may have been remarkably impassive, but I knew that she was still slightly looking out for me. It felt better to know I had a small ally in this class.

I stumbled along the sidewalk, looking down at the athletes running on the nearly frozen track, snowfall gently lifting down around them. The frost-lain plants in the small garden rows inclined over the soil, almost craning like a swan's neck. Kneeling down, I raised the camera to my eye and squinted, adjusting the angle before taking several pictures of the garden, concentrating most of the images around one particularly sad looking crop of cilantro, some small flowers poking from the weeds growing amongst the other plantings. The whole thing was neglected, but the sad, abandoned look about it made for some heartwarming pictures.

I must've spent the rest of the hour outside, exploring the outer school grounds, laughing as the PE students slipped and slid on the icy track. Eventually, I was lured to a small grove of trees on the far side of one of the fields, leading to a small gathering of picnic tables. I decided quickly that this was my favorite spot, thin feathers of white falling down, drifting through the canopy of the trees, naked branches clacking and snapping in the soft breeze, brushing my cheeks as I looked up at the thick, gray sky of clouds. The snow covered my winter clothes and layered upon exposed roots, the pines and oaks almost shivering from the cold, truly in yule spirits while the glacial air bit against my lightly tanned skin.

The winter was magical, and I made sure to preserve the moments and images in the pictures I took in place of the sketchbook I had left back in the classroom, waiting for me in my backpack. I frowned when I remembered that I could've fixed the drawing I had of the black-haired boy, but decided to leave that for later. Odds are that I would only run into him later today on the bus, but I had Tom and Finley and Sif to help keep me company and distracted, so I wouldn't have to face the embarrassment.

I held my head back, blinking as snowflakes fluttered between my lashes, little more than flecks caught in a gentle celestial dance. I was utterly alone in my grove of trees, sultrily standing against the tall trunks of the groves of trees, sinking in slowly with every fresh wave of snow. I clenched my fists, drew my eyes shut, and inhaled, grateful for the moments of solitude.

* * *

><p>My watch warned me with the time two minutes before class was to end. I trudged reluctantly back up to the main building, pushing past the freezing handles of the double doors to enter the hallway again. My boots were soaking around the edges, my gloves wet, my camera icy to the touch, but my face was flushed and I felt renewed. I saw Darcy hovering around the lockers, once again framing that particular locker when she looked up and smiled.<p>

"So, how was the outside, newbee?" she questioned, a small smirk on her face.

I nodded and smiled. "Great, thanks. Did I miss a call in or something? Because I know that it's kind of late..."

Darcy shook her head and walked with me to the classroom, opening the door for me as she plodded inside. "Nope, not at all. Ms. Greene could care less whether or not we come back at this point." Ms. Greene jovially waved at me, trying to be cute in the almost kitten-like way as she sat at her desk, attending something at her computer screen.

I walked back to what was now my desk, Connor sitting and sorting through his already printed out pictures. I smiled weakly at him, but he didn't notice me, pouring over his work like a mad scientist. I simply slipped the rubric and camera into my backpack and sat there, waiting for the class to end. Darcy laughed with the person sitting next to her, giggling about something, and I silently wished I could join them. The door acted like a revolving one as students walked in, filing in the lines their groups formed. I watched, measuring their countenances, looking for people I would want to be friends with. The mere thought of friends made me miss Tom his cousins all the more. _Why, o why, did they have to be seniors? _

I stared at my hands, conversations whispering around me, the noise escalating to an uncontrollable point as the crowding began. Some words stood out through the rest, however, and I intently listened.

"Hey, you bruising yet softie? Or did she not hit you hard enough?" A masculine voice laughed as someone shuffled around with their bag a couple seats behind me.

A softer, gentler voice answered, "No."

"Oh come on, seriously? No scarring? This chic must weigh nothing," the other voice laughed. "Like, seriously, she got you from behind."

"I'm honestly undamaged," the soft voice argued. "No harm done."

"I heard she spat in your face," a gruff voice snickered. "Betcha that did some harm."

"She didn't do anything of the like," the soft voice countered.

"At least she left you sitting there, crazy bitch," chortled the first voice. "Hit and run, isn't that what it's called? Don't understand what's going on in her head."

"It's her first day," snapped the soft voice, suddenly taking a harder edge. "Leave her alone."

"Ooooh," the chorused. "Softie's defendin' her."

"What's gotten into you, dude?"

The bell rung and the class jolted in unison, snaking out through the doorway. I sat there quietly seething, knowing well and truly they were talking about me. I stiffly threw a glance over my shoulder, turning bright red as I saw the black haired boy stand beside his desk, the other three teens shouldering past him, one of them whacking him in the back of the head as they chased after the girls filing from the room. The black-haired boy momentarily leveled his green, emerald gaze with mine before he looked away and left, following the class with hunched shoulders, his expression unaffected.

I sat there, quiet, stunned, unwilling to move. The boy had been in the class the entire time? My face turned bright red, darkening as I felt the guilt and twists of embarrassment wreck my stomach once more, my throat feeling clogged and my head pounding. Not only was he in the class, but the other students had quickly found out about the accident and were morphing it in all kinds of directions. I rubbed my temple, suddenly wishing to go home, or to be anywhere but here. What I thought had been a promising day was turning out into my worst nightmare.

I shouldered my backpack and stormed from the classroom, seething in my own emotions.

"Bye-bye!" Ms. Greene pitched on my way out, and I gave her a weak smile in return, knowing that she was nice enough, but I wasn't in the mood. The hallways were once again swarming with students, but I didn't see any of the ones I wanted to have rescue me. No sweet Tom, no fun-loving Finley, hearted Vlad, temperate Hayden, or mordant Sif. Only a thousand I didn't know amongst a building so foreign to me.

I stood against the wall, hoping for someone to come, feeling small and insignificant until I heard a familiar voice shout, "Isla!"

I glanced over my shoulder to see a tall, blond head bobbling through the crowds, shoving until he reached me. Tom was grinning more widely than ever, rubbing the back of his neck timidly as he laughed. "Found you!" he smirked.

I smiled back and nodded. "Yes, thank you," I implored. "I was starting to wonder where you were." _More than just wondering, really. _

He shrugged sheepishly. "I couldn't remember what class you had, but Sif did. We're waiting for you in the courtyard."

I frowned. "Courtyard?"

He nodded. "Yes, come on!" He offered his arm to me, for which I gratefully accepted as I let him tow me along once more, feeling the blush leaving my cheeks now that I knew I was safe once more.

He weaved through the crowds and broke down different hallways, passing stairwells and locker after locker until we breached another set of double doors and were immersed in a large, stone courtyard. Small statues dotted the place, large potted plants equaling their size, ringing in figurative designs. Students were gathering in minute clusters, but this place was far less crowded than I had expected it to me. Only streams of students walked along the sides, passing through the doors and walking up and down the concrete stairs. Arching over the expanse was a tall ribcage of metal work holding up a strong mesh of canvas, hiding away the snow but still letting sunlight fall through like a pool of light.

Near the center lined several rows of picnic benches, also made from stone. Sif, with her long, rivering black hair, sat at the edge of one side of the bench in the middle, opposite Finley, Vlad, and Hayden, Finley playing a small slapping game with Vlad while Hayden sat quietly eating his lunch. The cemented ground was damp as we walked across it, Tom leading the way, laughing out in greeting, "My cousins! Look who I found!"

Finley immediately brightened, waving at me and laughing with a wide grin. Sif turned around and leered, narrowing her eyes as Tom sat between me and her. I let my backpack fall down at my feet while Vlad's eyes twinkled merrily. I grinned- he almost reminded me of a red-haired, young Santa Claus.

"So, Isla," Finley smiled. "How's the first day coming along?" He took a giant swig of whatever was in his thermos as I nodded.

"It's fine, thank you! I think I've made some new friends already," I affirmed.

Vlad raised both fluffy red eyebrows. "Oh, is that true, then? Besides us?"

I laughed. "Including you, I've become acquainted with Jane Foster, and I think this girl named Darcy."

"Darcy? Darcy Lewis?" Sif asked incredulously. "The irritating small pixie thing? The one always carrying around a camera?"

Tom went rigid and shoved her before she could go on. "Sif, be nice," he urged between his teeth. "It's not as if your opinion has to be the same as Isla's."

"I thought that she was very nice," I protested, gazing at Vlad and Finley for help. "She's a little bit distant but she helped me out when I felt confused."

Vlad shrugged and stole Finley's thermos, prompting an annoyed look from the smaller cousin. Hayden carefully measured me while Tom decided to speak. "Well, whatever the case, at least Isla's finding some welcome in her classes," he argued, giving me a small smile. "I think for that we should be proud of her!"

"Amen to that, cousin!" Finley managed between hiccups.

"Well, that's all well and good, but how did you find Jane Foster?" Sif pressed. "She's a complete and utter dork, isn't she?"

I shrugged. "I thought it was kind of endearing how enthusiastic she is," I replied, reaching in and drawing out a bag of chips from my backpack, offering some to Tom. "Besides, she's one of the few people outside of my mom who finds my dad's work interesting. I think that's a huge compliment. Her dad is working with mine at the University, so it's understandable that she wants to be friends."

Vlad chuckled. "True, but you'll still probably be one of her only friends, bless her heart," he stated. "She's a sweet girl, just clumsy."

I laughed, uncomfortable that the people I thought had been nice were being minutely bullied. "Well, that's not the only thing I did this morning," I began again, the seniors once again taking an interest in my words. "I fell down the stairs."

"Clumsy meets clumsy," Sif muttered, prompting another reprimanding kick from Finley. Hayden looked concerned as Vlad gasped.

"Wait, you what?" Tom asked, worried as he scooted back to give me a once over. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. "I'm fine, just a slight headache..." I lied.

"Well, that's certainly an eventful morning," Vlad said, taken back with surprise. "Stairs, Darcy, and Jane Foster all in one. I wonder what the afternoon will hold."

I laughed and nodded, an inching feeling of dread pitting at the base of my gut. "I can't wait."

The rest of the lunch had gone smoothly after that. I laughed and learned as Sif left and then came back with a map of the school. She showed mt the different landmarks around the place, highlighting routes with marker to all of my classes and circling shortcuts to different locations, such as the office, cafeteria, and the courtyard. I listened avidly as they spoke about their family life, and what they were all going to do with themselves upon graduating.

I learned that Vlad and Finley were fraternal twin brothers, oddly enough. Sif was their cousin but they treated her like a sister, and Hayden was her adopted younger brother, all around the same age. Their parents had to go work overseas, so Tom's parents had volunteered for the task of taking them in until their parents got back, a date which they knew was far, but didn't know specifically. Tom, strangely enough, stayed the most silent out of the lot, sitting by my side like a loyal guard-dog, reprimanding Sif when need be and occasionally explaining some of their comments.

Tom's father was a political figure-head in the army while his mother worked as a detective for the Homicide department of the police force. Luckily, work for them was rare, as the city remained relatively peaceful. Sure, there was the occasional robbery, but thanks to their work, the city hadn't known a murder for almost twenty-five years. Tom looked proud when he spoke of them.

"And as for me," he continued as he slung his bag over his shoulder, leading me away from the picnic table, "I want to be a fireman."

"A fireman?" I laughed, simpering as we shoved through the double doors and started to head up a flight of stairs.

"Yes, a fireman," he affirmed.

"But why?" I asked.

"Well," he began. "I figured that I had the body for it, it was a grand position in society, the girls would come easily-" he winked at me, "-and I could enjoy the benefit of knowing that I made a difference in people's lives. I'd probably move to somewhere, like to the state of California. They have tons of wildfires. It'd be nice to get out of the snow- into the heat, near an ocean that didn't provide nearly as many storms. It'd be a rather comforting change of scene."

I nodded as we rounded a corner, heading down a hallway with my map in hand. "Sounds logical enough to me."

He grinned down at me before looking ahead, passing couples leaning against the walls, hiding during the last several minutes of lunch. "And what about you, Miss Isla? What do you want to be when you graduate?"

I frowned but shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know," I admitted honestly. "My mother wants me to become a scientist, like my father, but that just isn't me. If the world were perfect, I'd want to become an artist- to make a living from my drawings."

I then laughed and looked down. "But it's stupid to think that that could happen. I'm not nearly good enough and have no connections whatsoever."

"Who's to judge whether you're good enough?" Tom challenged. "If you have a dream, you should follow it."

"Yes, but there are too many starving artists clinging to that dream, but the dream itself won't put food on the table forever, Tom," I reminded. "I need something I could realistically live on. And drawing, chances are, isn't going to be that thing."

Tom pursed his lips, taking my hand gently. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," he insisted, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze. "Most of the artists I've met are their own worst critic."

I laughed. "I'm dreadful, believe me! I'll show you my awful drawings on the bus," I promised.

"I'll hold you to that," he warned, stopping before a door labeled 'trigonometry'. I sighed as he let go of my hand, giving me a large smile. "Well, this is it. Welcome to hell."

I gave him a skeptical look. "It can't be _that _bad," I drawled.

He shook his head, "Oh no, it is, and it always will be." He then reached down, took my hand and kissed it once more. "I must go, but I'll see you later, Miss Isla." With a sly grin, he turned and walked down the hallway, his chin held back proudly as he nodded at some of the older seniors. I caught Jane watching him from the locker she had open, her binders and books in her hands as she gazed wistfully after him. Tom vanished around the corner and she looked away, blushing, hiding her face as she threw me a considering, hurt look and disappeared into the nearest classroom, not bothering to close the door behind her.

My smile quickly fell and a sting of guilt shot through my chest, interrupting my heartbeat as I turned and opened the door to the classroom, shutting the door behind me and taking the nearest seat, wondering what I had done to unsettle the school so much in just a little under four hours.


	4. Hurry Home

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

* * *

><p><strong>Four- Hurry Home<strong>

It didn't take long to figure out why on earth Finley had called Mrs. Spencer an old hag. The sour, cold, middle-aged woman wore a permanent scowl on her face while she butchered our math and assigned assignment after assignment, her ungodly scrawl littering the board against the stark, bare classroom.

She was a spindly old thing, with veined legs and hands, a ruffled, unflattering skirt, blouse, and half-moon glasses. Her hair was pulled into a painfully tight bun, a dirty brown run through with gray while she hobbled around, slapping our desks with a ruler whenever someone bothered to talk while we craned over the pop quiz. The material wasn't hard, but it irritated her whenever we solved something without a struggle.

"You ungrateful, ungodly children!" she snapped as we cowered at our desks, the poor students clearly shaken to have survived through her for so long. She fumed as she shouted, "I've spent my life developing this curriculum and you _will_ show some respect!"

I didn't receive any special treatment for being the new girl, the only reason for her lack of resolve to was of the hard look I wore as I concentrated on my calculations, remembering all that I could about the circles she handed us. The impression that I had unwittingly given off while struggling with the math had given her a figurative pat on the back, and I loathed every moment of the class. Grinning and bearing it, the class seemed to take the longest out of the entire lot I had experienced so far, and I longed to be back in Mr. Clark's class, learning about Physics, something that was probably more useful than Trig.

I snuck a brief peak at my schedule, remembering that I had English next, and that my duties as a Trig student would soon end. I didn't really favor English as a class, but at this point, I was in the state that _anything_ was better than being a prisoner of Mrs. Spencer's. I would take crashing into the black-haired boy a million times over if it meant that I could get out of the hell-hole early. I thought of the black-haired boy during the middle of a problem and blushed, remembering how he had just watched me, silent as he held my scarf in both hands, on his knees as I tore off running. I sketched out his expression briefly on a sheet of paper, hiding it quickly as Mrs. Spencer bumbled next to me, her stone gray eyes burning as she watched me scratch away at the problem.

My ears felt hot and I let out a sigh of relief when she teetered over to the next group of students, our desks cluttered into small circles. The teen sitting next to me gave a _You-got-lucky_ expression as I finished the edge of the black-haired boy's face, feeling red as I shoved the paper in my binder and got up to turn in the quiz.

The time dragged, but eventually, after what felt like years, the bell rung like the siren it was akin to, and we all got up in unison, vacating the cage-like classroom and tearing after our next class. I kept pace as I looked down at my schedule, routing myself down to the English hallway. Students continued to giggle and socialize, but I kept to my purpose, leading myself with the directions Sif had neatly printed on the paper.

It wasn't far, much closer than I had expected, and after rounding a short corner I arrived at a painted, pink doorway with books, flowers, and suns splattered on the wooden surface, the title ENGLISH inscribed in cursive along the window. A few students were bobbling around the classroom, but no teacher was present. Darcy sat in in the first row of slate tables, formatted similar to that of Mr. Clark's classroom, buried in one of the Twilight books.

I smirked and rolled my eyes, but was grateful to at least know someone, looking about the room. Like the door, it was pink and painted, with a lip of yellow edging around just below the roof in a golden ribbon, lines of bookshelves pressed against the wall with a locked cabinet at the far end of the room. It was clear of dust though it resembled a library, and the teacher's desk sat in the corner, away from the whiteboard, sunlight streaming through the open-curtained windows.

Darcy looked up, saw me, and gave a smug look. "Well, looks like I can't shake you, so I guess I have no choice but to say hi," she lilted.

I grinned back. "Hi."

"You say goodbye, and I say hello!" sung a large, husky voice from behind me. I started and whirled to see a medium height man bounce inside. He was young, though probably not as young as Mr. Clark, with sable stubble running along his shaped jawline and a mess of black curls bouncing atop his head. He wore a light purple tee-shirt and cargo pants, complete with the look of black, high-top converse and a thread-bare, leather bracelet clasped around his left wrist. Toting a couple of papers, he immediately skidded to a stop, his eyes glinting as he strode up to my side.

"Well hello there," he greeted, a British accent thick in his calm voice. "You're certainly an unfamiliar face. What might you be called?"

But before I could speak, he immediately interjected, "Oh, that's right, you're Isla! How silly of me, I had forgotten for a moment that we were expecting a new student!" He abruptly stuck out his hand, the largest of grins on his face as he introduced himself. "I'm Mr. Blake, and I'll be your English teacher for the year! Quite literally, hence the accent." He laughed.

_Mr. Clark, Mr. Blake: these male teachers were a fan of first names for surnames. _I smiled and shook his hand, hugging my schedule to my chest as he gripped my hand strongly. "Nice to meet you."

He laughed and released his grasp on me, placing the files on his desk before he got out another, one with my name labeled on top. He trotted up and handed it to me. "We were given a fair warning of your arrival, so I've already printed up the necessary things for you," he explained. "We're just in the middle of reading Cymbeline by William Shakespeare, so nothing so drastic to catch up on. Usually students provide their own copy of the book, but that's unnecessary for you at the moment. You can simply borrow mine until you secure your own version."

I smiled, flattered as I drew the file in and added it to my schedule. "I...wow, thank you. That's one of the nicer things a teacher has done for me all day," I thanked.

Mr. Blake shrugged it off. "Learning is fun, and I try to make it so," he confessed. "We do all kinds of smaller projects during the times, and I try to give my students as much freedom with their creations as possible. Once every two weeks, the students come up with some kind of art piece, whether it be a story, a poem, a painting, a model- you name it- and they present it to the class. The only rule is that it has to do with something happening to them in the current moment. When we get closer to Christmas, for the final, I'll have you make something about the event that changed you somehow as a person during the semester."

I grinned. "Sounds like fun," I encouraged, automatically figuring ideas in my head for what I could do for the projects.

He rocked on the balls of his feet and smiled, gesturing with his hand to follow him. "I've already planned where you are to sit, and I've taken the liberty of claiming the vacated the spot next to one of my better students for your own. This lad is a fine young man who'll be sure to fill you in as we go along and keep you welcome. Excellent writer, he is, and smart, too. If you ever feel lost, just feel free to ask him questions during class or stop him in the hallway. He doesn't exactly know you're coming, but I expect he'll be cordial nonetheless." He winked at me from over his shoulder.

Mr. Blake stopped at one of the blackened tables closest to the outside wall, directly next to the window with an expansive, glorious view of the neighborhood, placing both hands on the table and leaning forwards. "This it to be your spot," he explained, grinning as he got up and added, "Enjoy your first English class, Miss Isla."

"Thank you," I responded, putting down my schedule and folder on the table and letting my backpack slide to my feet, setting myself down on the stool used for a chair, entangling my feet comfortably in the metal framework as Mr. Blake talked with the students coming in.

Darcy sat with a friend of hers, chattering away eagerly, while some people nodded and smiled at me, probably already briefed to make me feel normal in the new environment. I recognized some of the faces from my bus and earlier classes, but still was lacking when it came to names. Amidst the small hellos, Mr. Blake began to write down the agenda on the board, scribbling down to get out our version of Cymbeline while he fetched me his personal copy.

I flipped through the pages of the worn, well-loved book, being gentle with the spine as I read some of his personal annotations, all the little clues to understanding the older English. It was interesting to read into his own thoughts in interpreting the play, and I was immersed so as to not pay attention particularly to my surroundings, engulfed in the reading. The play's own plot wasn't hard to grasp- an old King named Cymbeline had a daughter, Imogen, who was in line for the throne due to the absence of her older brothers. She was expected to marry well, but had ended up falling for Posthumus, a young but poor man. It was full of tests and trials for the young couple's love, innocence and jealousy changing the tides of the play, but it the end it all came to a happy resolution as the lost brothers were found and Imogen was freed to marry whomever she wished.

"Ahh, you're here!" I heard Mr. Blake enthusiastically greet above the voices of the other students. "Just in time! I was becoming worried. Here, you have a new neighbor today!"

I looked up to see Mr. Blake walking towards me, a wide grin on his face as a tall, resolute figure trailed distantly behind him. Mr. Blake stood aside to allow me a full view of who I was to sit next to in English class, my heart picking up speed and racing in my chest, my face feeling redder than red, the heat expanding down to my throat, the embarrassment filling my now hollow chest, the blood rushing to my head.

The black-haired boy, the boy from the bus- the one from Photography, the one I had run over just several hours earlier. He looked impassive as he leveled my gaze, pursing his lips in thought as he raised an eyebrow at the bubbling Mr. Blake, his hands in his pocket, the satchel swung elegantly across his chest. "Here you go, Isla! Your partner for the rest of the semester!"

I felt my heart plummet to the floor. _The rest of the semester? _

The black-haired boy looked away and to the English teacher, avoiding my gaze, his lips tight and jaw clenched as Mr. Blake laughed. "Isn't he gorgeous? Well, you two introduce yourself and get to know each other!" He winked and then scampered past the black-haired boy, skipping to his place up front and clapped his hands together, calling for his 'bright, young learners' to take their seats and get out their copies of Cymbeline like the board had ordered.

The black-haired boy remained stiff and he stood, slowly walking around me and rigidly placing himself on the stool. I looked away, hiding my blush, begging for there to be an exit to this, but I found none. The black-haired boy shifted uneasily, taking out his expensive, well taken care of version of the play and set it before him, his hands no-longer gloved, his scarf and trench coat shed to reveal his blue button down and a simpler, gray jacket. His hair was still pushed backwards, his glowing green eyes intent as he stared in a straight, fixed line to Mr. Blake. I let myself ease into a brief comfort zone, knowing that he had no intention of talking to me, staying as quiet and reserved as normal. The boy would've appeared emotionless if weren't for the hand he let cover his mouth as he leaned forward on his elbows, stuck close to the desk.

I edged my own seat as far away from him as possible, letting my overgrown bangs hang forward and hide my pink cheeks, sitting back as Mr. Blake started to speak.

"So, my bright, young learners, how was everyone's weekend?"

The grin in his voice was contagious and I giggled, distracted from the black-haired boy momentarily as the class chorused, "Good."

"Any hilarious stories anyone is willing to share?" he asked, spreading his hands wide and expectantly, tilting back in relief as he charismatically teased several people into raising their hands. He laughed and called on a girl in the far corner of the room. "Yes, Mandy, do tell!"

Mandy laughed and rubbed her hands together. "I went sledding with my two-year-old brother for the first time down our hill. I taught him how to face-plant."

"You're two-year-old brother?" he asked, mouth agape. "I'm sure I can call Child Protective services on that."

Mandy continued to laugh, the class snickering. "Nah, he thought it was fun! That isn't so bad, is it?"

"A face-planting two-year-old, how unique," he giggled, calling on another boy. "Yes, Zach the Man, what did you do?"

Zach flipped his hair to the side and grinned mischievously. "My mom made me cook dinner on Saturday, and let's just say that I found out the hard way not to add sugar to pasta and then eat it."

The class burst into laughter, myself joining in on the cheer, when I glanced over at the black-haired boy to find him impassive as ever, not smiling, not laughing, not partaking in the fun. His eyes were narrowed as he leaned back and stared at the desk-space before him, lost in his own little world, quiet and thoughtful. My own smile fell and I gulped, facing forward once more.

"So, a face-planting two-year-old and sugar pasta! How wonderful. I need a third story: anybody have a third story?" The hands shot up, flapping and waving at him while he deliberated for a brief moment, his gaze venturing over to me. He straightened from his thinking pose and blinked at me. "How about you, Isla? Do you have any funny stories from the weekend to share?"

The class turned to me, their eyes wide and expecting as I went rigid, stifling a nervous gulp as I strained to think of one. I thought about my brother's first reaction to snow, and forced a smile as I began, feeling a particular pair of green eyes burn me as they stared. "Well, my brother and I went exploring in our backyard and made a snowman. Halfway through the day, it started to melt and its head fell off, so we dug a small snow-grave behind it and pushed it in. We had a small hot-cocoa ceremony and everything!"

The class chuckled, turning back as I had dodged the bullet, feeling the black-haired boy's gaze leave me and return to Mr. Blake. "So, class," he continued. "Today we continue reading Cymbeline. I know that you all have different copies, but if you remember where we were last, and I believe we were in the middle of Posthumus's speech about Imogen's primary heavenly virtue, which if I recall, was what?" He extended his hand to gesture for the class while they struggled to remember.

Slowly, the black-haired boy reached up, his hand shaking minutely as Mr. Blake called on him. "Yes?"

"Chastity," he answered, his voice dulcet as it echoed around the room. "The vice of which is lust."

"Correct," he praised with a small smile, opening up a spare copy of Cymbeline. "Now, if all of you would join me at the beginning of his speech."

I turned Mr. Blake's copy of the book open, searching for the point in the play, but was at a loss when Mr. Blake started naming who was to read who's lines. I struggled, flipping through the pages frantically, trying to be subtle about it getting absolutely nowhere. A long, pale hand suddenly placed itself atop the faded pages, and I looked up to meet the green eyes of the black-haired boy. He bit his lip and gently tugged the book from my fingers, easily pulling it before him and flipping through it with well practiced movements, turning to the correct page the moment Mr. Black ordered the class's Posthumus to start reading. The black-haired boy gave the book immediately back to me, his finger placing the correct page and line for me, before returning to his own copy, his eyes darting over the words as we read together.

Taken back by the small act of kindness, I hesitated to turning my gaze to the text, but forced myself to, embarrassed as I caught myself staring at the black-haired boy in wonder, pounding into my mind that he had no reason to be nice to me after what I had done to him earlier. As Mr. Blake started to explain the words, bringing the class in and out as he fostered discussions about the scene, I continued to remain far away from the boy, trying to work up the courage to say anything: to at _least_ say that I was sorry. I even turned to face him, biting my lip, my throat aching as the words caught. The black-haired boy was pulled from the lines as he felt my gaze on him, staring at me emotionlessly as I struggled with the words.

"I... Um," was that came out in a stammer. I quickly shunted my gaze back to the text, immediately turning the pages to catch up as I realized that I was several scenes behind. As the time dragged on and I continued to seethe, brooding next to the unaffected boy at my side while I struggled to comprehend what I was reading. There was a reason English was not my favorite topical class, even prior to learning that I was going to have to suffer through five more weeks of it at the side of the black-haired boy. Only a few words managed to thoroughly relieve my suffering.

"Alrightie, bright, young learners! That's it for today's reading," Mr. Blake dismissed, and the entire class stretched, stirring and shuffling as they pushed their books back into their bags. The black-haired boy quietly did the same while I snapped my book shut and stuffed my file and schedule into my backpack. "We have about two more minutes left of class, so feel free to take it for yourselves! Happy Monday!"

The class got up, slinging their bags over their shoulders and crowding around the door, thanking the sparkling English teacher for his time while they discussed plans for the rest of the week. I pulled my own backpack to the table-top and pushed out of the desk the same time the black-haired boy did, kicking the stool under the table as I sorted through my bag. He pulled his trench coat from his satchel and slipped it on, folding the collar up and tying his scarf around his neck.

My fingers slipped as I watched him and my bag fell over, my sketchbook sliding out and onto the floor between us, falling open to the page of my illustration of my sixth-grade crush. To my horror, he leaned down and gently picked it up, closing it and offering it back to me while I turned bright red, almost tearful as my eyes burned. I snatched it back and shoved the cursed thing into my backpack, immediately turning and heading to the outskirts of the gaggle of students, keeping my head low as several people stared at me, hoping that I had left the black-haired boy behind as I hid my face behind my hand.

I quickly learned how dead wrong I was when Mr. Blake jogged up to my side, the black-haired boy timidly following him as Mr. Blake smiled. "So, Miss Isla, how was your first day?"

"Entertaining," I said slowly after a quiet deliberation, desperately trying not to cry in embarrassment. I felt on the verge of tears as my voice cracked. "I can't wait until tomorrow so that I can meet the rest of my teachers."

"I'm assuming you didn't have any trouble with the text, Miss I-Skipped-Two-Grades?" he pried, still smiling, folding his arms across his chest. I could almost feel that he could tell that I so desperately wanted to leave, finally having enough as the day had tested my mettle thoroughly, the black-haired boy's green, intent gaze pinning me down from behind.

I shook my head, telling a small lie as I answered, "No, it was fine. I'll go home and read the rest to fully catch up. This day certainly has been...a load, to manage." My face fell and I looked away.

Mr. Blake nodded understandingly out of the corner of my eye. "I know how it can be hard to adjust to a new school, and how impossible it can seem to live in a new place, but please take solace in knowing that the students here are inherently good, and that you'll find friends among them."

I grinned weakly. "I believe I already have," I admitted, hugging my arms to my chest and fidgeting.

His eyes brightened. "Really? Wonderful! Might I ask whom?"

I shrugged, blinking profusely. "Just a couple seniors." I stared at the floor, wanting to fall through it, hoping that this was all just a nightmare and that I would wake up sooner or later in my own bed at home, in New Mexico.

In my peripheral vision, the black-haired boy shifted, his trench coat rustling as his soft voice said, "Er, Mr. Blake..."

Mr. Blake perked up and whirled to face him. "Ahhh, I almost forgot you were here! So, I trust that you helped out Miss Isla on her first day?"

I looked up, my heart racing and my breath hitching, air something I suddenly had to struggle for while the black-haired boy gave a considering look to Mr. Blake. "Not as much as I should've liked," he answered after a dawdling beat.

Mr. Blake laughed. "She's delightful, isn't she? And a pretty young lady, too! You two will make smashing partners," he enthused.

The black-haired boy gave me an almost guilty look as I clenched the bridge of my nose, well and truly trembling, feeling like I was about to burst when the bell rung and saved me. My peers immediately pushed through the door, shoving to get out and running once they reached the hall. I leaned in with them, about to go when Mr. Blake stopped me with a small hand on my shoulder, bringing the black-haired boy around to my side.

"Perhaps," he suggested, addressing the black-haired boy, "you could show Miss Isla to her bus?"

I interrupted the black-haired boy before he could speak, his pale lips parting as I stuttered, "Oh no, it's okay, my- my parents are driving me," I lied, turning bright red as I shrugged Mr. Blake's hand from my arm. "I know you're trying to help but I- I really need to go."

I practically sprinted through the door, keeping a fast pace as I followed the snakes of students travelling down the stairwell, hiding my face and slipping on my gloves and beanie, my neck absently feeling cold, bumping into people before I heard a familiar voice ask, "Isla?"

I looked up to my side to see Tom staring down at me, the smile dissolving as he noticed how red my face probably was, my eyes shining in the horrid light. "Isla, what happened?"

I quickly decided for cover, laughing shakily as I wiped my eyes. "Oh, Mrs. Spencer's an old hag and English drives me nuts," I attempted, blinking like there was no tomorrow as we exited a set of double doors and entered once more the front of the school, buses lined on the curb as students migrated to their vessels for home.

Tom nodded, laughing. "We weren't lying, you know," he defended, but couldn't shake the look of concern as he gently took my hand. "You're sure you're okay? It seems like there's something you're not telling me..."

I shook my head, smiling as I saw Finley and Sif wait at the front of the bus that was to be ours. "I just... It's been a chaotic day," I said, dreading sitting next to anyone else. "Can...can I sit next to you on the way home? I'd feel better to have a friend at my side."

"Anything," Tom promised, squeezing my hand and letting go as Sif came into view. Sif smiled down at me while Finley clapped my shoulder.

"You okay, sport?" Finley asked curiously, but Tom shook his head at him and he quickly took the hint. "Well, no matter, we're going home now!"

Sif grinned, also taking in on the hint that I did _not_ want to talk about it. "Exactly! Home and rest, and you have two days to finish the homework. How's Mrs. Spencer?"

"A witch of a woman," I agreed as Tom lead me onto the bus, pulling me to the back while our bus-driver lost herself in the latest issue of her gossiping magazine. Tom sat by the window while giving me the aisle seat, Finley joining Vlad and Hayden while Sif claimed a seat for her own next to me.

Vlad chuckled as more students flooded in, amongst the mixture the black-haired boy appearing, looking slightly shaken. I avoided his gaze as he stared at me, pausing momentarily in the middle of the aisle. A larger jock bumped into him from behind, urging him to move before he was run over. Looking like he had just seen a ghost, the black-haired boy slid into a seat quickly near the front of the bus, scooting towards the window as he stared into the outside.

A pang of guilt ached in my chest, but I stifled it as Tom started to speak. I occasionally provided a comment, but felt almost empty as their conversation surfaced around me. Eventually, during one of the stops after the bus kicked into gear, Tom and I switched places as he offered to supply what was supposedly my end of the conversation to the rest of his cousins. I watched as Jane got off the bus at her stop, followed by several students, her head down, a book clutched to her chest. I wanted to wave at her- to somehow socialize with her, but she didn't see me as she turned down her neighborhood and began walking.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and watched the snow, the houses starting to become familiar in sight as we drew to a close in one of the last few stops, Tom gently nudging me and saying, "We're here."

I looked up to check the stop, seeing a patient Andrew waiting for me, the beanie on his head covered in a thick sprinkling of snow, his hands in his pocket and his shoulders relaxed, feet parted beneath him in the layers of ice. I smiled to myself, grateful for his presence, and followed Tom and Sif from the bus, thanking the bus-driver for her time while I hopped down the stairs and ran into Andrew, circling my arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. The black-haired boy stood a little closer to the stop-sign, Tom and his eyes tickling the back of my neck with their gazes. I pulled back and grinned at the shocked Andrew.

"I don't think I've ever been happier to see you," I admitted, grateful to be in his shadow once more.

Andrew gave me a stunned look as he slowly replied, "...who are you and what have you done with Acorn?"

"Acorn?" giggled Finley curiously.

"I couldn't pronounce Acacia when I was three, and Acorn was the result," my brother explained, eying the smirking Sif with a subtly interested expression. "I trust my baby-sister wasn't too much of a burden?"

"Quite the contrary," Vlad assured. "We loved her company. She was, without hyperbole, the highlight of our day."

"We don't want to keep you waiting," Finley politely added. "I'm sure Isla wants to catch up with you."

Hayden nudged Vlad and Finley away, Sif following with a curt nod while Tom stayed behind, a little bit shy as the black-haired boy followed suit, walking a little behind the three cousins, his head bowed.

Andrew rolled back his shoulders and started in the direction of our home, clearing his throat and dismissing, "Well, I'm going to get a head start back home as well. Catch up when you're ready."

Tom smiled at him, but then quickly spoke up. "Actually, Andrew, I was wondering if I could ask you something, if it's not too much trouble."

Andrew paused and gave him a curious expression. "Sure..." Both brows were raised in temperate expectancy.

"I was wondering if I could briefly relieve you of your duties and take Isla to the bus-stop tomorrow morning," he voiced. "I think it would be a wonderful thing to help get to know her better."

Andrew shrugged before nodding. "Sure. Thanks Tom- that's a favor to me. If you want, and if Isla wants that, then great."

I smiled and nodded. "Yes, most definitely! That sounds awesome!"

Tom blushed slightly, saying, "Good," a little too quickly. "Well, I mean, excellent. I'm grateful that it suits."

Andrew gave me an amused look before turning and walking across the street. I looked back up to Tom, the tall teen appearing slightly nervous.

"Well, it was great to meet you, Isla," he acknowledged, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm going to go home and tell my parents about you, if that's okay. They've been looking forward to your arrival. Feel free to come visit us anytime- we live just a little down that way, in the house by the end. We'd all like to show you around and make you feel comfortable in the neighborhood."

He then laughed nervously. "But, I warn you, Finley might want to steal you away for a game of ping-pong or two. It's quite the addiction of his."

I laughed. "Sounds like a plan," I replied, glancing down to see his group vanishing around the corner, but started as I saw the black-haired boy waiting about two driveways down, shoulders hunched, hands in pocket as he stared at me, his face unreadable from the distance. Tom tried to follow my gaze, but I distracted him as I added, "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Tom nodded eagerly. "Yes, tomorrow." He grinned. "I look forward to it. Seven twenty?"

"On the dot," I warned, giggling.

With that, he raised my hand once more to his lips and gave it a gentle kiss, turning tail and heading down towards the black-haired boy, the boy still unmoving, still staring at me. I felt the blush return to my cheeks and sprinted down after Andrew, my backpack thumping as I ran to his side, my brother still walking with his iPhone in hand before him, typing with one thumb a message to Georgie.

"So, Acorn, how was school?" he began.

I sighed, flexing my fingers as I shook my head. "You have no idea."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** **Something interesting to note is that Tom Hiddleston, the actor for Loki, played Posthumus in Cheek by Jowl's own production of Cymbeline. Ah, the irony. **


	5. The Messenger

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

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><p><strong>Five- The Messenger<strong>

_The warehouse was darkened, the night outside shading away the windows lining the upper, arching ceiling. Frameworks of metal webbed above the messenger's head, his footsteps echoing across the concrete as he pressed forward, chains and hooks hanging down, crates stacking in towers around him. He wove through the path, his hat low to cover his eyes. After all, he was just a messenger- his identity was irrelevant. _

_ He promised himself just this in that dark building that night- he would only do what was necessary. How did that old proverb go? Don't kill the messenger. _

_ Especially after hearing the news he had to bring. _

_ Two guards formally dressed in tuxedos stood outside of the office area as the messenger climbed the stairs, shrugging his coat tighter over his shoulders while they gave him piercing stares behind their glasses. His breath became visible before him once more, the temperature dropping as he rose. _

_ One held out their hand as he approached the top floor. He stopped as if on cue. _

_ "State your name," the guard asked, voice deep and foreign. _

_ "I have none," replied the messenger. _

_ "State the state," the other guard questioned, not turning his head. _

_ "The state of the ice on the tundras of Jotunheim is cracking under pressure," the messenger answered, a devilish grin easing across his expression. "The All King Laufey will want to hear this." _

_ "The King is not taking visitors at present," the first guard explained, voice cold as he clasped his hands before him. "Leave with your business and come back in time." _

_ The messenger growled. "The news I bring cannot wait another millennium! Perhaps the name of Asgard rings a bell? The prophecy of the coming of Ragnarok? Midgard cannot have wilted on your sense in just this short amount of time! Let me talk to the King!" _

_ The guards gave each other a small look before turning back to him, looking down on his strong figure. _

_ "We'll speak to the King," the second one acknowledged, turning into the shaded room and shutting the door behind him, the dark windows tinted and unyielding to the messenger's mortal eyes. Magic pulsed in tender currents in the air, strong auras battering him from every direction, tension increasing. _

_ After a small beat of silence, the second guard come out, keeping the door open as he gestured inside. "The All King Laufey permits your presence," he commanded, stopping the messenger only to warn, "Make it quick." _

_ The messenger didn't nod but only ducked inside, the room bigger than he had expected, and darker. The icy floors and snowy ceiling made him shiver, but he didn't remove his hat. He kept his hands relaxed at this sides as he looked to the darkened back of the room, not seeing the All King, but knowing perfectly well that he was there. _

_ A dark voice whispered from the other side of the room. "What business brings you here?"_

_ "My liege," he greeted, bowing his head. "I bring news of the prophecy. The ancient prophecy." _

_ "What of it." _

_ "The events...sire... They're beginning to unfold," he continued, halting as he tested the grounds on which he stood. _

_ "What events?"_

_ "The coming of the union, the joining of two hearts-" he paused, swallowing in the agonizing silence, "-sire, they've...they've met." _

_ Something rustled, movement cascading as something shattered, ice breaking and the dark voice thundering, "NO!" _

_ "My liege," the messenger continued. "There...there is a way to reverse the process." _

_ The movement ceased, silence once again consuming the room as the dark voice asked, "...How..." _

_ "Sire, only the stars have told me of the union," he confessed. "But, the stars also tell me otherwise. I know not where this has happened, but a sun converges between the two lovers, the two harbingers of our destruction. Sire, a death must happen. A close one- close to the girl. It's the only way!" _

_ "Find them!" ordered the voice, a tall, strong silhouette appearing out of the dark. "Find them! And destroy this at any means necessary- your powers, your gifts! Odin curse the day I have to do anything myself to amend your doings! End this now! While it still bears young! END IT!"_

_ The messenger kept his head bowed, but grinned maniacally. "I... I understand, sire." He knelt to the floor, one hand steadying him as he gave a small laugh. "Your will is my command."_

* * *

><p><strong>THOR<strong>

Thor ran up to join his younger brother and his side, clapping his brother on the back as he let loose a bellowing laughter, strutting through the ice while Loki only gave him a raised eyebrow. Snow fell around the two brothers, the Warriors Three and Lady Sif already disappearing into the culdesac.

"Well, brother, what do you think?" he asked proudly, holding his chin back.

"Think of what?" Loki replied, keeping his gaze averted while Thor bade himself a hero.

"The girl! Isla Selvig!" Thor clarified indignantly. "She's a wonderful girl, isn't she?"

"I couldn't say so, I barely know her," Loki pointed out. "And as do you."

Thor shook his head and laughed. "Nah, tomorrow morning I aim to change that officially." He winked at his brother. "Perhaps you'd care to join me?"

"Wasn't it you that said only two weeks ago that social interactions were not my forte?" Loki reminded, flexing his fingers while Thor hugged his arms to his chest, indifferent to the weather.

"As silver-tongued as you are, brother, you're right as always," Thor admitted. "I am clearly the proper choice to walk the fair maiden to the bus-stop."

"Why are you so keen to be her friend?" Loki asked as Thor observed his reflection in a neighbor's front window.

"Why aren't you?" Thor countered. "She's smart, kind, and uncommonly pretty for a mortal. Do you argue with any of those virtues?"

Loki didn't answer, only gazing straight ahead as they walked through the snow.

Thor snorted. "Thought so."

The rest of the short way was walked in silence as the brother's continued to their home. The house, in itself, as it came into view, wasn't as grandiose as Asgard, their true home, but it would have to do for the meantime. The unfinished business in this realm permitted it so.

Thor only ran through options in his head of conversation to share with Isla the next day, ranging from movies to music to food and to school, interrupting Loki's distilled train of thought for a brief moment as they strode up their driveway.

"Brother, what would one talk to Miss Isla about?" he asked, Loki entering the combination to the garage. "I mean, she's obviously smart-"

"-smarter than you," Loki cut-in with a small smile.

Thor clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth at being insulted. "-and she's a girl, so our opinions clearly differ-"

Loki rolled his eyes as the garage door opened. "Brother, I trust you have all the capabilities in the world to avert your crisis, but quite honestly, I don't think she cares what you talk about, as long as you just talk."

Thor didn't quite understand, but nodded anyway to feign comprehension, following his younger brother through the expansive garage and through the kitchen door, clicking the button to shut it all behind them. Sif's clear, high voice rang out while Fandral tapped at the piano in the living room, filling in for Loki until the youngest son of Odin took his place, graceful fingers dancing along the keys while Sif warmed up for her practice session. Fandral disappeared in the direction of the stairs.

Thor dove into the pantry, pulling out a bag of popcorn and throwing it in the microwave, waiting for the measly seconds it took to supply a decent meal. He glanced to the living room as his mother and father sat in their seats, his mother watching Sif sing with Loki at the piano while Odin contented himself with the latest issue of the New York Times, a large pot of coffee on the table beside him.

Thor trudged over to the red couch closest to him, kicking off his boots and putting his feet up on the coffee table, shoving food into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in years. Practically, the hours felt like it. Fandral whooped from the room underneath the large staircase, the game-room, probably already beating a begrudging Hayden at a challenge of ping-pong. Volstagg was no where to be seen, but another shout from the game-room soon affirmed where he was.

Sif began a holiday melody that Thor didn't care to remember the title of, Loki matching her chords with his own accompaniment, Frigga watching with proud eyes before she turned her attention to Thor. "My dear, how was school?"

"Horrid," Thor admitted. "But I managed."

"Thor met a new girl," Loki said while Sif was resting in her vacant measures, his fingers still busy at his melody.

Frigga raised both eyebrows. "Oh, indeed. Tell me about her," she pressed.

"It's the Selvig's daughter, Isla," Thor explained.

"Oh dear, the Selvigs again," his father sighed from behind the newspaper. "How is she?"

Thor sat forth, eager to share his opinions on her. "She's small, but really pretty! Dark blue eyes and medium curly brown hair!"

"I'm beginning to think you have a thing for brunettes," Odin contemplated while Frigga threw him a reprimanding look, turning back to Thor and urging him to continue.

"Well, she's only fifteen, but she's a junior, so she's smart for a mortal," Thor explained. "She's taking Photography and Art as her electives, but she has Mrs. Spencer for Trig, so that doesn't bode in her favor. She's going to be a great artist when she grows up."

Frigga nodded with a smile. "Sounds like an accomplished young woman."

"And pretty, too!" Thor added once more, prompting an eye-roll from Sif.

"So I trust her day was fine?" Frigga continued, pretending that Sif wasn't stifling laughter, holding her hand over her mouth while Loki filled the room his a melody once more.

"Well..." Thor said. "Apparently she fell down the stairs during passing period."

"Oh dear," Frigga immediately replied, concerned as she stared a her son. "I trust she's okay."

"Undamaged," Thor assured, "but apparently she hated English. She was practically silent throughout the entire bus ride, but was eager to sit with me, which isn't something to lament over."

Loki's fingers suddenly faulted at the keys, missing the chords as if he had lost control of his talent. He then stopped, sighing and turning red, pushing down the cover over the keys and grabbing the satchel he had left at his feet, pouncing from the small stage and immediately bolting up the stairs.

"Loki?" Frigga asked, concerned, her eyes following his trail up and away from company. Even Odin seemed alarmed, letting the magazine fall forwards to reveal his face, his gray eye-patch glinting in the artificial light, his gray hair drawn backwards.

A door slammed from up on the second floor, Frigga flinching and giving Odin a hurt, confused look. "What was that all about?" she asked in disbelief, holding a hand to her heart.

Thor grunted and heaved himself up, resolving to go after his little brother. Running away was not normal Loki behavior, but he had decided that this was a job that he was up to.

"And now where are you going?" snapped Sif, annoyed that her pianist had fled in the middle of her performance.

Thor only gave them a grin and waved. "I brother in need is a brother indeed," he reminded, thinking himself clever for the twist on words as he jogged up the wooden stairwell, striding down the hallway and rounding several corners until he reached the wooden door of his little brother's.

Thor raised his hand, but before he could knock, a stiff voice snapped, "Go away, Thor. I'm not in the mood."

"What could be more important that a brother's company?" Thor challenged.

"Homework," Loki replied coldly.

Thor sighed and shrugged, deciding to try a different approach. "Don't make me come in there! I'll kick down the door if I have to!" He shook his fist at the door, employing his father's childhood technique whenever they misbehaved.

"I'm not _making_ you do anything," Loki growled. "Go. Away."

"Now that sounded like an order," Thor laughed, testing the handle, surprised when he found it unlocked. He twisted the handle and cracked it open, peering inside, blue eyes wide as he found Loki not doing homework, but sitting barefooted on the bench lined against his front window, gazing out into the street, his arms rested over his crossed legs, avoiding Thor's gaze. His expression was hard, brooding, calculating, as if he was struggling to think, green eyes boiling in heated emotions.

Loki shot him a glare as Thor maneuvered around the trench-coat and satchel thrown across the floor without care, surprised that Loki's fastidiously clean, bare room had anything at all on the floor.

Thor sat down on the neatly made bed, clutching his hands together while Loki gave him the cold shoulder, griping, "I thought I told you to leave me alone..."

Thor shook his head. "I'm known for being stubborn, brother, and I want to know what's going on," he explained, giving his brother a kind smile. "Though you may not want it, I'm offering you my help. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Loki snapped too quickly, his face falling as he realized his error. "I... I'm just tired. Leave me alone! I need to think."

"Can I help you think?" Thor asked with a grin.

"No, you of all people can't!" Loki barked. "If anything, you make it worse! How can you help me, the God of Mischief, think when all you have in your head is _air?" _

"I'm sure there's some lightning and thunder in there as well, somewhere," Thor teased, unaffected at Loki's insults.

Loki clenched the bridge of his nose and groaned, drawing his knees to his chest and letting his head fall forward.

Thor's heart gave a disheartened thud and he sighed, getting up to join his brother on the small bench, the wood creaking beneath the added weight. "Look, brother..."

"Just go away," Loki begged, his voice muffled.

"Are you mad at me? Was it something that I did?" Thor asked, not believing the idea that he could be the cause of his brother's moodiness.

Loki sighed angrily. "No, thickness, it's not you. Just go."

"Then what has made you so angry?" Thor asked, leaning back and giving his brother a raised eyebrow. "You're not being hormonal, are you?"

Loki brought his face from his knees, giving his brother a skeptical expression. "Really, Thor? An Aesir? Hormonal?"

Thor raised his hands in surrender. "We can be teenagers too, brother," he defended as Loki got up and started heading towards the door. "It's a normal part of growing up."

Loki gave him a considering scowl before opening the door and letting it swing open, gesturing out to the hallway. "There. That's your way out. Now go away." His tone was final.

Thor hung his head, massaging his neck as he begrudgingly got up and walked from the room, resigning that no matter what technique he could think of at the present, nothing would get his baby brother to cough up what was wrong.

He trudged back down the stairs, Loki shutting the door once more, but quieter this time. Thor gave Frigga a shrug as she questioned him with her blue eyes, worried for her youngest son. Sif as was indignant as ever, as she had employed a less than enthusiastic and less than talented Volstagg to hammer out the accompaniment to her solo on the piano. Thor swung his backpack over his shoulder and nodded to his parents.

"I must go attend to the disaster that is Algebra homework," he dismissed, smiling at them as he headed back up to his room. His room wasn't nearly as clean as Loki's was, belongings strewn everywhere. He left his door open so that he could watch his brother's room, wondering if the youngest Aesir would ever show himself or admit to needing Thor's help.

Thor smiled as he pulled out his Algebra binder, turning it open to the page of notes Isla and he had dabbled on, the process to the math so legibly written in her print. He clicked on his iPod and turned on his laptop, setting the music to AC/DC, a mortal music group he had decided he liked. He watched the paper and homework before him with a considering gaze, sighing as he succumbed to the temptation of the Internet, promising himself that he would finish it all later.

* * *

><p>Loki sighed, running both hands through his hair as he stared at his satchel, his back to the door he had just closed on his brother. Thor's obstinacy had worn on his nerves for long enough. The mere thought of English was driving him nuts- the way he had tried, tried to show her that it was okay, that accidents happen, and that she was forgiven- the way that she didn't seem to understand.<p>

He walked to his satchel and knelt down, unfastening the catch to let the flap fall open, reaching in and drawing on the long, cashmere, red scarf that she had left him with. He would have to find a way to return it to her, but how? She had lied to try and avoid him. She didn't even know his _name._ He thought briefly to himself that if she knew who he was, who he _truly_ was, she wouldn't act this way.

But of course, she didn't know, and could never know. At this point, it wouldn't make a difference. It would probably only make it worse.

Loki sat back, the scarf tangled between his fingers as he wondered what he had done wrong.


	6. Animosity

**The Gap **

spockjasperlokizukowriting

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><p><strong>Six- Animosity<strong>

I hadn't any interest in conversation as I shut the front door behind me, Andrew kicking off his snowboots as my mother tapped into view, a magazine in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, her eyes and grin wide.

"So, darling, how was school?" she pried, giving me a wink before she sipped her cup of tea.

My stomach lurched and I suddenly felt nauseated, the oncoming headache I had been feeling approach finally forming. I rubbed my temple, slipped from my shoes, and shook my head.

"I'll talk about it during dinner," I dismissed, taking off my gloves and beanie as I trudged up the stairs.

Mother quickly walked to the base of the stairs, staring up after me as she asked, "Wait, what? Where are you going? I made you cookies and everything!"

"Homework," I croaked, shoving my gloves into my pocket and swallowing. My eyes seared, my face suddenly feeling heated as I ran my hands through my hair, my throat stinging, my chest burning. I suddenly wanted nothing more than complete and utter privacy. My feet felt heavy as I trampled forward, bolting towards my room, running past my father as he raised his head from his study and gave me a confused look. I flew into my room and slammed the door behind me, leaning against it and sliding down, shucking my backpack as I slumped forwards, flopping to the floor and letting the cascades of tears floor, covering my mouth as a wave of panic took hold.

"This can't be happening," I begged, losing complete control as I struggled to breathe properly, clutching both sides of my head, straining under the weight of my emotions. I began to hyperventilate, tucking my knees to my chest as I shut my eyes to halt the rivering flow of tears. "This _can't _be happening..."

His expression. I couldn't shake his expression as someone rapped at my door, a voice asking from the other side, "Isla? Isla, are you alright?"

I bit my lip, grinding my teeth, desperately trying to keep quiet as I shouted back, "HOMEWORK!" My voice cracked and I moaned, filching my sketchbook from my backpack, stopping my door with my bag, and throwing myself onto my bed, grabbing a pencil and ruthlessly scrawling something down on a blank page, the lines blending together into a incalculable mess, distantly forming the face he had made at me once he realized that I had lied, and that I wasn't going home with my parents, and that I was sitting next Tom, like I hadn't any heart at all. I scribbled down the rest of it all- from Photography, to the sights of him in the hallways, to him staring dumbstruck at me during the beginning of English, Mr. Blake clueless to the signs. The bus-stop, the evening hours- anything that I had seen of him. My tears fell on the paper, plopping like raindrops and smearing the graphite, waterfalling down to my lap in long, gray streaks.

I furiously wiped my nose and growled in anger, feeling uncontrollable as I x-ed out the images I loathed and replaced them with new ones, losing myself in the drawings, the images that wouldn't go away, the memories threatening to make my head explode. I felt like I was bursting- pressure expanding like a bubble in my chest, burning, searing like a hole had been ripped through me.

"I'm sorry..." I groaned, scratching out his face, puncturing his heart by accident with the tip of my pencil. "Whoever you are, I'm sorry. I'm an awful, awful person..." I sobbed. "I'm sorry..."

Then, ever so slowly, I calmed down, the gray light outside my window dimming until it shone nothing but black. My fingers no longer trembled, control came back. My dancing heart calmed down, my breathing slowing to normal, smoothing out, the rush of adrenaline tempering within my blood. I quivered as I relaxed, feeling dry, empty, spent from the voracious crying. It had gotten me nowhere- crying was always pointless, but the surge was passing now, the storm recovering as the tumultuous oceans inside me leveled. The hollow feeling inside my chest ate away at my insides, burning, aching, embers flying about like the smoldering remains of a fire.

I slowly sank onto my back, propping up my knees as I desk as I lay down, supporting my neck with pillows as I was reduced to shading, perfecting the central image of him, posing in English, shoulders curved inward, dark eyes brooding, black hair matching his sable clothes, pale skin dull in the poor light.

I let my hand drop to my side, exhausted, the pages hovering open, bent and rough from being attacked for the last hour. My chest gave another throbbing pang, the skin over my cheeks stiff and salty as I inhaled, whispering to myself, "Be strong."

A knock sounded once more at my door, and I groaned, rolling over onto my stomach to hide my reddened face, letting my sketchbook fall from my hand to the floor as I grunted, feeling drained after my tantrum.

"Isla?" asked my father, unsure, knocking again. "Can I come in?"

He took it as a yes when I didn't reply, the door slowly pushing open as he shoved past the little barrier my backpack provided. I exhaled, my breathing muffled by my pillow, my eyes dry but on fire as I heard his heavy footsteps walk to my bedside, the pages of my sketchbook crinkling in contact as he picked it from the floor. The mattress sank, leaning in towards as him as he sat on the edge, a gentle hand tenderly stroking my hair as he sighed.

"Tough day, huh?" he stated, warm voice soothing.

I groaned, letting myself sink deeper into the cushioning. "You have no idea," I grumbled, my voice stifled by the sheets.

He gave a weak laugh, keeping a reassuring hand on my back as he heaved a breath. "Seems like you've been busy inventing people again," he stated in a drawl, my sketchbook crinkling once more.

I rolled my head from side to side. "Oh, he's real," I assured, letting my head fall to the side, cool air caressing my raw skin. "Real as anything will ever be."

"Then how come there's no name?" my father continued, lifting the sketchbook into view, retreating his kind hand back to his lap. His blue eyes glistened. "Usually there's a caption, but to these, there's none."

"They don't deserve an explanation," I refuted, twisting to face the other direction, lying to face away from my father as I exhaled. "Only space on the page. I can't _give_ an explanation. They're only there to exist."

"I'd find it more useful to help you if I knew what was going on in your head," he countered, snapping the book shut. "A father worries for his only daughter, you know."

"The only daughter finds it rather annoying at times," I grumbled sarcastically.

He chuckled. "Acorn, what's wrong?" he begged, moving the sketchbook to my nightstand. "You never act like this. You haven't cried in months."

"Perhaps that's why I have now," I supplied, curling into a fetal position. "I... I just had a hormone overload, that's all."

"Really?" he replied skeptically.

"Really."

"I don't believe you, but since you aren't willing to tell me what really happened, I'm going to have to make up a story for you," he resigned, the grin clear in his voice.

I shut my eyes. "Please don't..."

"Oh, but I must," he ventured. "So, my daughter heads for her first day of school, and she sees the boy of her dreams. He's handsome, and dark, and mysterious, and judging on the drawings, never smiles, but, it turns out he already has a girlfriend, and you're devastated."

I groaned, sitting and running my hands through my hair, shaking my head at him and giving a less than impressed expression. "No, dad, that's not it at all!" I snapped. "He's this guy that I only saw once on at the bus-stop but was forced to sit next to. He never spoke at all, but I thought he was nice, and later when walking down the stairs, I trip like the klutz I am and crash into him, pulling us down the rest of the stairs and onto the floor. I land on top of him but my scarf got tangled around my neck and I started choking. He pushed me from him and pulled the scarf off, but when I realized what had happened, all I could do was stare...stare at him while he knelt there with my scarf in his hands..."

My eyes stung as the tears started again, choking on my own words as I stammered, "And I just ran... I ran as fast as I could to my next class, forgetting my scarf, forgetting the boy... And... And I had the class with him, and everyone knew, and they said some mean things, twisting the story... I had- had to sit next to him in English, but... He tried to be nice, but I lied to get out of a conversation with him." I sobbed, hugging myself and hanging my head, my father giving me a grim expression the entire time.

I searched his eyes, pleading with him. "Dad, what's wrong with me?..." I whimpered. "I was mean to this boy, ignoring him, avoiding him- I don't even know his name and yet this drives me crazy..."

My father's expression mirrored mine, sympathetic and understanding as he pulled me into a tight hug, rocking me back and forth as I cried into his chest. "Shh, you're okay," he whispered, kissing the top of my head as he kept his firm embrace.

"No, I'm not!" I managed between sobs, partly stunned that I could produce anymore tears. "The day was dreadful! I got nowhere and I feel wrong!"

"Nonsense," he disregarded, rubbing my back reassuringly. "The fact that you even _feel_ this way proves that you're not at _all_ wrong."

I pulled back, disbelieving as I wiped my eyes in frustration. "What? How?" I croaked, rubbing my eyes while my breath hitched.

He nodded, leveling our gazes as he smiled kindly. "Isla, you're feeling guilty for something that you didn't mean to do," he explained. "You want to make it right, but you're confused about how to do so. Your feelings are much more simple than what you take them for. A wrong person wouldn't feel this at all- no remorse, no guilt. Yet you do... Isla Selvig, you are far from wrong."

I hiccuped and paused, beseeching him to be true. "...really?"

He nodded. "Really, really," he insisted with a grin. "All you need to do now is admit that you were within the wrong and apologize to him."

"Apologize?" I breathed, feeling lost as I shook my head. "...How? He probably hates me by now!"

"Say that you're sorry," he shrugged, taking my hands in his and giving them an affectionate squeeze. "That's all there is to it. Find him, and apologize. Even if he doesn't accept it, it'll be for the best. For both of you."

I grinned weakly, trusting in his words, calming down, the tears ending for good as the last one fell. I swallowed and nodded, shutting my eyes. "Okay... Alright... I'll do that."

He patted my hands and straightened, standing from my bed and walking towards my door, murmuring, "Good."

I glanced back at him and suddenly said, "Dad?"

He turned, a hand on the door as he raised both eyebrows. "Yes?"

I smiled at him, crossing my legs beneath me as my curled hair waved down over my shoulder, inclined forward. "Thanks," I averred, clasping my hands in my lap. "For...for everything."

My father beamed, dipping his head. "You're welcome," he replied, letting the sweet moment hang in the air before he sighed, his expression changing. "Now, do your homework and get your behind into bed before nine. Dinner is what you can dash up in the microwave."

I glanced at my alarm, exhaling as he shut the door and I realized it was six. I rubbed the back of my neck, gazing at my ruffled sheets as I sighed, "Great."

* * *

><p>My alarm clock trilled and I moaned, finding it within me to roll over and slap its top limply, sinking down briefly into my sheets, working up the courage to move. The sleep had helped, but I couldn't but dread getting up for the next day of school. A flash of emerald green flickered behind my lids and I forced them open in retaliation. Now was distinctly <em>not<em> the time to remember those events of yesterday.

Eventually, I twisted in my sheets and slipped out of bed, fingering my way around for a light switch until I found one, the glaring overhead fan-light flipping on and nearly blinding me. My eyes quickly adjusted to it, the hues fading as I stacked my homework for my first day aside and replaced the binders in my bag for my new classes, remembering with a grudge that I still had at least four more to go before I could return to Mr. Clark's amazing Physics.

_Great, _I thought, sighing as I angrily slipped into my clothes and brushed through my wild hair. _Perfect. _

But then I remembered Tom and Sif, and I smiled to myself, looking down as I forced on my converse and fashioned the laces. Tom and his cousins had been the highlight of yesterday, and for that, I was grateful. I prided myself in at least having a few friends amongst a crowd of strangers, and perhaps some enemies, and I shouldered my backpack and strode from my door, grabbing a new, pink scarf from my door handle and wrapping it around my neck.

I checked Andrew's room, smiling when he had remembered to get up to walk me to the bus-stop, hopping past my father's abandoned study before bounding down the stairs, hanging my backpack on the holders by the door before whirling to walk into my living room.

"Hey Isla!" boomed a cheerful voice, but it wasn't my brother. I froze in my tracks, halting to see Tom sitting on my couch, donning a red and orange plaid jacket, jeans and the widest grin known to man, blue eyes sparkling, hiking boots ready for any weather.

Andrew sat on the opposite side of the room, buried in a magazine as he sipped his coffee, not glancing up to greet me as he acknowledged, "Morning, Acorn." My father sat in his recliner nearest to Andrew, reading a newspaper, almost mirroring his son in pose, but keeping his eyes glued on Tom through his glasses, his presence shocking me the most.

I smiled in pleasant surprise, remembering that Andrew wasn't to take me this morning- Tom was. "Good morning, guys," I said slowly, walking up to Tom as he rose and held out his hand, taking mine and giving it his cordial kiss. "I...wasn't expecting to see you here so early."

Tom laughed and shrugged. "Well, better early than never, and I thought I would get to know your parents first," he explained, smiling at my mother as she came around the corner carrying a tray of cookies and drinks, grinning as she threw me a pointed look.

"Well, here we go, my dears!" she said, placing the tray on the coffee table between us as she straightened and brushed off her housewife apron. "Breakfast in the living room!"

Andrew immediately folded away the magazine and sat down his coffee, indulging in a few cookies as he nodded. "Thanks," he grunted, glancing up at Tom as he took his seat back on the couch. I hesitantly sat at his side, still taking it all in when my father spoke up.

"So, Tom, do you have a last name to go with that?" he asked. His tone wasn't necessarily unfriendly, but was just flat, cold, as if last names weren't exactly the thing to go on his mind.

"Asgard, sir," Tom replied, unfazed, still grinning stupidly.

I blushed as my father narrowed his eyes. "Interesting last name," he drawled.

Tom shrugged. "It's Norwegian, sir. My father moved from there when he was a young boy," he explained.

I smiled. "Hey, that's so cool, because we're Swedish!" I piped enthusiastically.

Andrew hid his face behind his magazine again. "If I recall correctly, Norwegians and Swedes didn't particularly like each other, Acorn," he shot down.

My father rolled his eyes. "That's the Finnish and the Swedes, son. We have no problem with Norway," he corrected.

"Besides," I pointed out, "Tom's a nice guy nonetheless."

"Sure..." my father slowly responded, prompting a glare from my mother as she took her seat in her rocking chair, blond hair shimmering in the morning light as she stirred her tea.

"So, Tom, do you like sports?" she asked, resulting in my father slowly lifting the newspaper back to his face.

Tom nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Selvig! I play Rugby, football, wrestling, weight-lifting, and tennis!" he responded, enthused about the long list of sports he could name.

My mother raised both eyebrows, impressed. "Well, hence the physique," she commented, shooting a pointed glance my way to result in my imminent blush, the heat creeping down my cheeks and to my neck.

Tom didn't catch the comment the way he should've and laughed. "Why, thank you! I work hard," he replied. "I take after my father."

A silence briefly hung in the room, Andrew muttering under his breath, "...awkward..."

"And your father is a military official?" my mother continued, determined to carry conversation as I squirmed.

"Yes- a general, in fact," Tom specified. "He works at a base nearby. My mother is a detective specializing in Homicide. Both are kept rather unoccupied, thankfully, Mrs. Selvig."

"A blessing to us all, I'm assured," my mother grinned. "And please, call me Miranda. And my husband, you may call him Erik."

Father grunted from behind the newspaper, mumbling something about wanting to be called 'sir' and 'your highness' continually.

I glanced at my watch and quickly stood up, not feeling hungry as I went to kitchen to fetch my lunch, saying over my shoulder, "Well, Tom, don't you think that it's time to go?"

I rounded back around the corner as Tom stood, slightly puzzled as he checked his own watch. "Well, it's a little bit early..."

"Hey, well, better early than never, right?" I challenged, pushing my lunch into my backpack as I slung it over my shoulder.

The comment prompted a grinning Tom to collect his own from his feet as he responded, "Indeed." I rolled my shoulders back and glanced at my parents, smiling at them.

My mother straightened to her feet, walking up to Tom to shake hands, earnestly dismissing, "It was great to meet you, Tom."

"The pleasure was all mine," he insisted, taking her hand and kissing it formally, shocking her with widened eyes. My brother raised a suspicious eyebrow as my father stiffened, striding up to my mother's side with his brow furrowed.

"Don't worry mom," I assured as Tom walked towards the door, her stunned face reminding me of my own reaction yesterday morning. "He just does that."

"Yeah..." my father drawled, circling a defensive arm around her shoulders. "...right... Me too..."

I looked down and blushed, waving at them as Tom held the door open to me.

"Have a good day, you two!" my mother encouraged as Tom nodded and shut the door, laughing as I stumbled out, fuming in our front garden, the air remarkably clear of snow but the pavement icy.

"Your parents are great!" he stated, striding up to my side and offering his elbow as I held my cheek and fidgeted.

"Yes, well..." I began, feeling at loss for words. "They're parents." My footing slipped as I reached the sidewalk, my feet sliding from beneath me as I tumbled backwards.

Tom caught me, righting me with a considerate push before holding my arm tighter than before with his vice-like hand. "You're not quite used to the snow yet, are you?" he asked skeptically, walking us forward with a confident step.

"Haven't gotten my snow-feet yet, I guess," I answered, following him up the hill, clinging to his muscled arm for stability. The snow had melted, resulting in sheets of ice rolling down the street and the cement.

He chuckled. "Sounds about right."

"So, when do I get to meet your parents?" I pried snidely, nudging him. "You made quite the impression on mine."

Tom shrugged, creasing his brow as he gazed down at me. We crested the hill together as he replied, "I actually issued an invitation to your parents from my own for a lunch gathering on Sunday."

"Really?" I stated, taken back by the abruptness of it all. "Huh. That was quick."

"Let's just say that you made quite the impression on my parents," he supplied with a mischievous smile.

I smirked. "But I haven't met them yet," I retorted.

"No," he acknowledged, squeezing my hand as he took it from his arm and into his own. "But I met you. And word travels fast around this part of the city."

I exhaled. "Yes, it tends to do that." I felt rouge return to my cheeks as I remembered how quickly everyone had learned to my coming, and of the accident. But my heart sank when I recalled my vow to apologize, lacking in courage to do so even though I _knew_ that it had to be done. We rounded the corner of the street, taking into view the bus-stop. The black-haired boy's figure stood solitarily by the stop sign, as he had yesterday, and I could barely make out the smudge of black of his clothing.

Tom grunted, annoyed at something as he inhaled. "...what's _he_ doing here?" he muttered, gripping my hand as he glowered at the bus-stop, stopping briefly before starting again, breathing heavily as he wrinkled his nose.

"...who?" I asked after a pause, unable to take my eyes from the black-haired boy as Tom continued to grasp my hand, almost painfully, angrily, like something had unsettled him.

Tom growled. "You'll see soon enough," he moped, and I glanced up at him confusion, the glaring Tom something that I hadn't been expecting.

I squinted back to the bus-stop as Tom drew me in, closer to his side, his bare fingers entwining with my gloved ones as I took in who was at the bus-stop. It occurred to me that he might've talking about the black-haired boy, someone he hadn't spoken to or introduced yet, but couldn't think of why he was grow nervous at the sight of him. Sif, with her long black hair, stood by Vlad and Hayden, Finley hanging off the arm of an unappealing Vlad while another, unknown figure stood proudly at the curb. I didn't recognize him as we ventured closer, finally resolving that I didn't know him, but that this was the person Tom was anxious about as we stopped at the other side of the street, looking both ways before crossing.

I could feel the black-haired boy's eyes on me as we reached the stop, the new boy standing apart from the Asgard cousins, his hands in his pockets, a lazy grin on his face as he eyed me, clear, hazel eyes flashing, a mess of cropped, chocolate brown hair glinting in the sunlight. He shrugged in his black, parka-like jacket, his navy blue jeans and fashionable winter boots rustling.

"Hello," he finally said, his voice distinctive and confident. Tom tried to shield me behind his back, but I frowned and pushed forward, Tom gripping my hand protectively as he glared menacingly at the brown-haired boy, Vlad, Sif, Finley, and Hayden stopping whatever little conversation they had while the brown-haired boy only smiled, impassive to their aggressive response.

"I'm assuming you're Isla?" he asked of me, stepping onto the sidewalk and holding out a friendly hand, his grin wide behind glistening teeth. "My name is Arren. Arren Coulson."

Tom tried to hold me back, but I was determined to make another friend, stretching out my own hand as he accepted it. He didn't kiss it like the other Asgardian boys had, only shaking it as he grinned. "Yes, I'm Isla," I affirmed. "Nice to meet you."

Arren looked up at Tom and smiled. "And Tom. Long time no see." His tone was sickeningly sweet, not friendly, but callous.

"You weren't supposed to be back for another week," Tom snapped, pulling me back to his side defensively.

Arren cocked his head sideways. "Well, our vacation took a little turn," he answered, glancing back at me, "...for the better, in my point of view. Now I get to meet the fresh face as well." He gestured towards our linked hands. "I see that you've well and truly introduced yourself."

Tom seethed, eyes narrow and rolled fist trembling, itching to strike.

I nodded, supplying the conversation when Tom wouldn't. "He took the liberty of walking me to the bus-stop today," I explained.

Arren's eyes flashed. "Interesting," he stated, grinning as he added, "You know, I actually live right next door to you."

I frowned. "You do?"

He nodded, grinning. "Yes. My father wanted to introduce ourselves to your family, but seeing as we only got back last night from Washington, we've been on a stretch for time," he explained, giving Tom a sly side-eye. "I didn't particularly miss this place, but it's nice to be home."

Tom bridled, reaffirming his stance as he rolled back his shoulders, sticking his chin out. "Perhaps we didn't miss you either, Coulson."

I inhaled, panicking about Tom's behavior when I looked around, searching for an exit. My eyes fell on Sif and I seized the chance. "Hey, Sif!" I greeted, trying to walk towards her, but Tom's unrelenting grasp held true, his fun-loving side well and truly gone from his now darkened eyes.

Sif stiffened but strode to my side on cue, taking my hand from Tom's reassuringly and walking me over to Finley and Vlad, Hayden impassive while Tom grudgingly plodded behind us. Arren leered, but returned to standing just off the curb, out of the way while Sif kept her hand clenched around my shoulder.

"Hey!" Finley greeted, still hanging from Vlad's flexed arm.

I raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

Vlad rolled his eyes, but smiled heartedly. "He's attempting to prove me wrong when I say that I can support his weight on only my arm," he explained, blue eyes flashing as his long red hair caught in the wind.

Finley grunted, clutching onto his forearm as he struggled out, "It's not working...yet."

Sif rolled her eyes. "Honestly, you two can be such gorillas," she grumped, but grinned down at me.

I giggled, forgetting Arren as Tom pushed to my side, reaching for my hand again with the question in his eyes. I obliged him, and he returned to clenching it, trying to be gentle, but still panicked. He almost reminded me of when Andrew was young and nervous, clutching onto my mother's hand as he stared shyly at his kindergarten school. Tom edged closer to me when Sif decided to speak again.

"So, excited for your second day of school?" she asked, dark eyes boiling with emotion.

I nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be!" I lied. "I'll see if I can navigate on my own to the courtyard during lunch."

"What classes?" Finley asked as he dropped from Vlad's arm, shooting the brawnier cousin a cold glare.

I bit my lip as I paused to remember, feeling at ease in their presence once more. "Er... PE, Art...then, an off period, and Economy."

"Economy'll be tough," Sif mused, pursing her lips. "But the rest of those sound fun."

"Especially Art," Tom pitched in, smiling down at me, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I think that it might prove useful."

"Might?" I challenged with a grin. "I'm determined that it will."

"That's right," Finley agreed. "Tom told us that you were the budding young artist."

Tires screeched from around the corner, all of us turning to face the bus as it roared into view, gears shrieking to a halt as it stopped with a slight jolt and opened its doors. Tom didn't let go of me as we followed the black-haired boy and Arren up its steps, the bus driver unaffected as I smiled at her. Arren sat up in the front rows of seats, greeting his friends and whispering to them while Tom stormed past, leading me to the back with Sif and Finley in tow. The black-haired boy ignored me as I stared at him, walking past as he took a seat near the middle, pushed against the window, a distant expression on his face as he let his satchel fall to his feet.

I bit my lip, my heart skipping in guilt as Tom pulled me down next to him, Sif sitting in the back with Vlad and Hayden as Finley took the seat opposite us. The seating arrangement seemed to travel around every bus-ride, but seats we occupied remained the same. Tom remained silent, holding my hand and watching out the window as Finley spoke up, his hazel eyes flashing at me as he laughed.

"You look better than you did yesterday afternoon," he commented, clasping his hands together.

I nodded, giving a grateful smile. "The sleep definitely helped," I replied.

"Vlad, I swear you're a pig, you know that?" Sif grouched, crossing her arms as Vlad took out his lunch, shoving down a Ziploc containing a strawberry pop-tart.

He gave her an innocent look. "I'm hungry," he defended between bites, scooting closer to the window, poor, emotionless Hayden sitting between them with a less an impressed expression. He glanced at me and gave his first small smile, gesturing that Sif was crazy while she seethed and stared out the side of the bus, Vlad munching away at his other side.

I giggled as their light conversation took over, eventually convincing Tom to let go of my hand as I looked down and got out my sketchbook, turning to a new page to record the morning. Behind my pencil sketching, I watched as Jane got on the bus several stops down, hugging her books to her chest and glancing around, unsure of herself. There were little seats left, so she asked accordingly, her voice unheard as she took her place next to the black-haired boy.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge, my clutch on my pencil becoming tighter as he simply sat there, ignoring her as he had ignored me, while Jane occupied herself with a novel on astrology. I quickly finished the drawing of Tom glaring and rivaling against Arren for my attention when I turned to a new, blank section of the page, drawing Jane sitting next to the black-haired boy, not caring particularly about his silence, both of them sitting alone, but in each other's company.

I glanced up at Tom, their situation reminding me of mine. Tom hadn't said two words together to me since arriving on the bus, looking anywhere but his friends. When he noticed me gazing at him suspiciously he smiled weakly, squeezing my hand, but then quickly looked away, releasing my hand to tuck both of his in his lap. I glanced back at Jane and her seat partner, their own scene unchanged, and I swallowed. Arren laughed in a loud ruckus with his friends at the front of the bus, Ashlee joining the mixture and sitting at his side, making excuses to touch all the boys she flirted with.

I rolled my eyes, almost gagging at her sluttish behavior, and continued to sketch the black-haired boy. It didn't inherently bother me that Tom and I had a sudden lack of conversation- it only unnerved me. Arren's presence had done something to all of the Asgard cousins, and one by one, they each fell silent, finding something else to do rather than talk like usual. Vlad happily continued to munch, Finley playing cards with Hayden, Sif studying for a quiz while Tom only stared into space, almost like the black-haired boy. The silence carried as I scratched at my paper, resigning to later ask why the Asgards hated Arren so, and, if anything, had my presence changed this.

* * *

><p>Tom dropped me off with a kiss on the hand at the gym, outside of which was an office. Several coaches sat around, lazily talking and staring at their computers as they worked, tapping away at the keyboards. I watched Tom disappear around the corner before I worked my courage, knocking on the ledge of the open door before entering.<p>

A black-haired coach glanced up at me, batting her darkened lashes, artificially painted with make-up as she smacked the gum she chewed. "Can I help you?" she asked, uninterested.

I gulped and fidgeted. "My name is Isla Selvig," I greeted. "I'm new here?"

She turned and flipped through her attendance, tilting the clipboard to the side as she raised an eyebrow at me. "...I don't have an Isla, but I have an Acacia Selvig..." she pondered aloud, dark eyes questioning.

I nodded. "That's my real name- I go by Isla."

She froze, momentarily speechless, the other intensely fit, active coaches standing around uncomfortably. She then rolled her eyes and put down the clipboard, pushing her rolling chair back with manicured fingers before standing up and leading me away and out to the hallway, leading me passed the double-doors of the golden gym before stopping at another metal door, the word GIRLS emblazoned across the top.

"This is the locker room," she drawled, seemingly bored as she crossed her arms and stuck out her hips. "Change here when you arrive and then head out to the gym through back through this way. I just need to take roll-call, and then you can do whatever the hell you like. I don't honestly don't care." With that, she turned tail and strutted back to the office, admiring her nails and smacking her gum once more.

I pursed my lips and knitted my brow, turning the handle and walking inside. "No, you obviously don't," I mumbled in backlash. Some girls were already inside, changing from their decorated school clothes into baggy gray tee shirts and dark black and purple sweatpants, every outfit too loose as they tied their draw strings, desperate to make it as tight fitting as possible. Ashlee and her small pack were part of the group, their bags and purses strewn across the benches as she pulled on her tee shirt, giving me a small sneer before she pranced out from their corner of the locker-room.

I swallowed and self-consciously changed into my own gym outfit, the clothes considerably newer and fresher than some of the others displayed by the girls changing around me. I shoved my backpack into a spare locker and secured the clip, locking it and zipping up my dark blue jacket, dreading heading to the gym as I strode from the dark prison cell and out into the hallway. Some boys in baggy clothing wolf-whistled, nothing more than bums skipping class. I ignored them, holding my head a little taller as I pushed into the gym, leaving their laughter behind me.

The gym itself was quite ordinary, with basketball hoops hanging low from the tall ceiling, a climbing net suspended at one end, the glazed floor untouched despite the worn edges. A volleyball net divided the gym in half, different baskets of different balls and supplies lined against the wall. Bleachers sat against the far wall, students gathering in the middle, some groggy from their early morning while others talked loudly amongst themselves. I continued to the front until I stopped, frozen in my tracks, my heart thundering as I looked at who I was to share the gym class with.

The black-haired boy, hunched over with his elbows rested on his knees, long hands clasped together before him, turned as he felt me staring at him, eyes widening minutely, but otherwise unresponsive as he faced away, staring at the ground, fidgeting under my prying gaze.

I gulped, shaking my head and bounding up to the back, hiding away from the other people as I collected myself, the reality suddenly seeming all to real, working up the courage to do what I knew had to be done as the coaches strolled in from the doors, the class coming to attention as the bell rung. I hardly paid attention as the coaches took roll, my eyes pinned on the boy from the bus.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: What a mystery chapter, but also the introduction of Arren Coulson, the son of the notorious Agent Phil Coulson. In addition, check out Waiting For the Wolves by Birds of Tokyo. It wrote this chapter mainly to that anthem stuck on repeat. **


	7. Apologies

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

* * *

><p><strong>Seven- Apologies<strong>

"Class, roll-call!" the primary coach called, stepping forward, still chewing her gum like a cow with cud. She started scrolling down through the list of names, but none of it reached my mind. I was terrified, trembling as I could look at nothing but the black-haired boy, inclined forward over his legs, his taut shoulders rigid, his black jacket fastened up to his chest, long, black pants baggy from his thin frame.

"Be strong," I murmured to myself, my heart pounding, desperately flying inside my chest, hammering at my ribcage uncomfortably. I clenched my clammy hands, wringing my hands as I refused the urge to fidget. "It's only a simple apology. Nothing special."

But it wasn't. It was _more_ than that- it _felt_ like more than that. It felt like a fruitless effort- he wouldn't accept my apology. He wouldn't understand that I genuinely regretted my actions. How could he, when I had given him no reason to trust my word as of yet?

I ran my hands through my hair, relieved that the coaches couldn't be bothered to give me an introduction, and we were released, conversation rising in the air as my peers tumbled down the bleachers and pounced onto the glazed, wooden floor.

I shakily stood, following after the students as they dispersed around the gym, friends being with friends while a few loners dabbled around, finding things to keep themselves occupied. I could only quiver, an anxious wreck, numerous possibilities of screwing the apology up tearing through my mind. I picked up a basketball and nervously dribbled around, attempting to be subtle as I desperately scanned the gym, trying to locate the black-haired boy, my heart skipping a beat as I saw him near one of the stray basketball hoops, shooting with an elegant grace with another boy, the boy from the bus both larger and fitter than his counterpart, but willing to cooperate and play with him nonetheless. I felt my heart sank as I stumbled, forcing myself forwards, walking around the gym, berating myself for being a complete and utter coward.

_Isla, seriously? You can't simply apologize to him? You're making this into a much bigger deal than it actually is! _my mind screamed at me.

I groaned, pacing in a small corner as I waged the war within myself, stumbling about, not particularly knowing where I was going, lost in my own thoughts. I quickly felt a pair of intense eyes burn against my skin, and I glanced up to find his emerald eyes staring at me, his hands paused at the ball as we both stood stiffly, uncomfortable, completely aware of each other's presence. I blinked, realizing that I had unwittingly wandered into his space, both of us straining in tension.

I panicked, trying to find something to do as he gazed down at me, my hands reacting instinctively as I raised them back and made a shot at the hoop, the ball flying past without even hitting the backboard. The adrenaline raced in my veins as I looked back to the black-haired boy, frozen in place while he stared back, emotionless.

His brown-haired playmate fetched my ball, thinking that it was his until he jogged back up and saw me, his friendly eyes twinkling as he gave the black-haired boy an amused look.

"Well," he said quaintly, eyeing us both, laughter in his blue eyes, "I guess I'll leave you to it."

He handed me my ball, placing it between my hands with an easy kindness before sprinting off in a different direction, joining the lines underneath the yellow climbing net. The black-haired boy tried to say something to him as he left, but the words caught in his throat as he stammered, turning back to me with shining eyes. He then gripped his ball and walked closer to the hoop and farther from me, stopping at the free-throw line and shooting, the ball landing through the basket with a perfect arc, not even brushing the rim as I gawked, unable to do anything.

Working up the courage, I finally staggered forward, shutting in the distance as I raised the ball and made another pathetic attempt at throwing, the ball colliding against the rim and flying back towards the black-haired boy. My jaw dropped and I watched in horror as it smacked him in the shoulder, echoing with a loud, hollow noise and dropping to the floor with a limp bounce.

I quickly covered my mouth to keep in my yelp of terror as he observed his shoulder, rubbing it and throwing me an accusing expression. I trembled, eyes wide as I ran up to him, the worlds falling out before I could control them, aghast that I had hit him again.

"I'm sooo sorry!" I cried, wavering as I struggled to stand still, hand poised in mid-air. "I- I didn't mean that! I didn't mean any of it! I didn't want to crash into you yesterday and I'm sorry that I lied during English! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything! Please don't hate me! Please, I feel awful and have been and I was trying to say sorry when I made that stupid, stupid throw and I didn't want it to hit you! Please, I'm so sorry!"

I stopped, the words halting and catching in my throat as my voice cracked, feeling like such a sudden idiot, wanting nothing more than to be gone as he stared at me, dumbstruck, a hand on his sore shoulder. I shook my head, mouthing, "I'm sorry..." once more as I walked away, nerves calming down, relieved that I finally done it- it was over with, gone, done. My head felt like exploding as my eyes watered, but I heaved in a labored breath.

_It was done._

* * *

><p><strong>THOR<strong>

Thor strode down the hallway, the drag in his step absent as he controlled himself, dark thoughts seething in the back of his mind at the Coulson boy's untimely return. Thor had all but forgotten about him in his week-long absence, contenting himself with knowing that he would have Isla to himself for the rest of the week. But apparently not so. Coulson was as determined as he was cruel, the slimy weasel. His return had unsettled the Warriors Three and Lady Sif, bringing about the familiar hostility they had dealt with for years. Fandral had brooded over it all morning throughout Speech with Thor, both struggling to accept that their arch-nemesis had bothered to come back.

Thor glowered at the floor at the mere thought of Arren, trudging through the courtyard and heading towards the gym. Thor was continuing his second-day routine, determined to pick up his brother from PE. Passing period had already commenced, students guiding themselves along the handrails as he walked down a flight of stairs, footsteps squeaking and echoing from the tile floor. Conversations carried around him, but Thor wasn't paying attention, his mind elsewhere in the world, shoving through the crowds unintentionally.

_Why did he come back early? _Thor moped, clenching his fists again. _He had left as abruptly as he had come back. It doesn't add up. _Thor couldn't muster a possibility for the Washington trip, but decided that it inevitably wasn't his deal. His father would take care of it later.

Despite Isla to contradict it, Thor couldn't stand mortals sometimes. They could be fascinating, kind creatures, while others were insolent and vain.

_But, then again, Asgardians could be as well, _he decided, nodding to himself and priding himself on the thought. Thor had run in with arrogance himself (though most of the pride was deserved and well-founded), and had seen the evil of the nine realms, but didn't understand how such a worthless being could hold such power of his emotions. Perhaps it was their history, something that Thor avoided thinking of, or perhaps it was Arren's family: the entire lot being general bad news. Odin was determined to make them allies, but Thor didn't understand Arren at all. Loki had assured him that Arren just had attention problems, but Thor couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than that. That Arren _lived_ to make their lives miserable.

He rolled his fists again, looking down and halting as he felt a smaller form collide with his own and hurtle backwards. He blinked, relaxing, seeing the error- he really hadn't been paying attention to what he was doing after all. A medium height girl grunted in surprise, shocked that she had nearly been run over, blinking with brown eyes as she crawled forward and started picking together her papers.

Thor, concerned, knelt down to her side, apologizing quickly. "I'm so sorry, miss," he babbled, avoiding her gaze, collecting her papers in his large hands and sorting them into a pile. "I honestly didn't see you."

"Oh- I... It's okay, Tom, I guess," the girl stammered, curling a brown lock that had fallen forwards around her ear, the rest of the russet mess pulled back into a pony-tail. Thor handed her his stack of papers, frowning as she carefully placed it back within the respected textbook.

Thor's fingers paused at the mess, considering her delicate, heart-shaped face for a moment before he smiled. "Hey, I recognize you," he finally said with a grin.

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide and hopeful, lips parting as she breathed, "You do?"

He nodded, pleased with himself as he handed her another book. "Yes! I saw you yesterday morning when I was leading around Miss Isla," he explained, keeping another book in his hand as he continued, "Jenelle Fletcher, am I correct?"

Her face fell, quickly taking the last book from his hands as she shook his head. "Nope, not at all," she sighed, dismayed.

Thor's smile faltered, disappointed that he had gotten her name wrong, knitting his brow as they both rose to their feet. "But... I'm sure that was your name..." He gave a small pout.

"The initials were right, but the names weren't," she quickly corrected, hugging her belongings to her chest.

_JF..._ Thor thought to himself, quickly grinning confidently when he decided he had remembered her name. "Jaimie Forager!" he piped enthusiastically.

The girl's face continued to remain grim, her eyes flickering as she pursed her lips and shook her head.

Thor rocked back and forth on his feels, starting to become impatient with his memory. "Janet Flannigan?"

"No."

"January? Jean? Jackie?" he continued, running through the list of female J-names he could summon to thought. He counted them off on his fingers, struggling to think through the mental exercise.

She shook her head, smiling weakly, disappointed. "No... I... I have to go..." She ducked and tried to walk around him, but Thor stood to the side, blocking her, smiling and excited by the game. She scowled, attempting in the other direction when he scooted back into her way, grinning, sticking his chest out a little bit farther as he crossed his arms.

Jane frowned at him, squaring her shoulders as he laughed. "Please, Tom, don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked, exasperated.

"Not until I guess your name correctly," he countered, grinning as she frowned at him. "I swear it's Jasmine."

"No, Tom, please move," the girl flushed, blocked by Thor once more as he side-stepped back into her way. "I have to get to class! I can't be late to Computer Science IV again!" Thor relished her small tantrum, grinning to himself as she fumed and stamped her foot, each action adding a spring of encouragement to his ego. He admired her face, her form as she continued to rant about something having to do with school, continuing to side-step into her way as she tried to escape. He wasn't particularly paying attention to her words- he only watched her for her actions, for how she reacted. It was rather amusing until a few choice words finally cut through his thick mental barrier.

"I swear, Tom, move now! I'm going to be late to class again and it'll be your fault!" she accused, frustrated as she glowered at him.

Thor's smile dissolved, his heart beat hammering as he clenched his fists, a thought suddenly coming to mind. "Wait, one last guess?" he pleaded, determined to win the game and draw it out for as long as possible.

She frowned, tapping her foot impatiently, drumming her fingers against her books, still bright red as she allowed, "Fine. Just one."

The crowds in the hallways were starting to thin, time wearing away. Thor felt his palms become damp, the tension rising, his heart picking up speed. Thor pursed his lips, praying that the name was correct, hoping with all of his heart as he finally stuttered out, "...Jane?"

Her face blanked in shock, her lips parted, the blush fading from her cheeks as she nodded slowly. "...yes... Yes, that's correct..." She tried to frown, but it was conquered quickly by a sweet smile. "I'm Jane Foster."

_Foster, _Thor scowled. _Why hadn't I thought of that? _

"Now I really need to get to class," she interrupted in the middle of the self-scorning session of Thor's. "Please, move out of the way."

"Oh, yes, of course!" Thor finally managed through his thoughts, distracted, giving her the widest of grins, proud that he had won. "Till we meet again, Miss Jane."

She gave him a confused expression, returning slowly, "Seeya later...I guess..."

The thought hit Thor like a battering ram, and before he could control it, he stammered out, "Wait- wait, Jane!"

She stopped, turning back to him quickly, her eyes wide. "What?"

He shyly looked down, frustrated that he had never been good at this, but stifled his annoying feelings and simply asked the question. "Will...will you eat lunch with Isla and I today?" he hoped, quickly adding to Jane's stunned expression, "Finley, Vlad, and Hayden will be doing club activities, so it'll just be the four of us, including Sif! I... There'll be room, and it'll be nice to make up to you knocking you over..." He self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the red in his cheeks, blinking expectantly as she was at loss for words.

"Well... Well, I..." she stuttered, glancing back up at him to renew a determination within her chocolate eyes. She reaffirmed her stance as she grinned. "Yes. Yes, I will take you up on that. You owe it to me."

"In every respect, I do!" Thor prattled, losing self control as he continued, "and- and it'll be a great opportunity to know you! I... I think we've been going to the same school for... for..."

"Seven years," Jane pitched in, giving him a small smile. "Yes, I agree, it's overdue."

"Too much!" Thor corrected, grinning before his concerned look could last too long. "I... I hope to amend that. I feel like I've almost been rude."

"You haven't," she stammered, shaking her head. "No, I'm assuming you've been busy... Friends, you know, they take up so much time!"

He nodded, his smile faltering. "Will... Will I be keeping you from friends?" he timidly questioned.

"No!" she answered too quickly. "No, not at all! I'm free! I look forward to it!"

Then, ever so quickly, before she could scamper off, he snatched her hand and gently swept it up to his lips, giving her pale fingers a tender kiss as he smiled down at her, Jane's face shocked and turning a dark scarlet, closing the ambsace between them with a small stride. He dropped her hand to her side, grinning uncomfortably, trying to find his confidence as she stared at him.

"Whoa..." she whispered, addled at his action, unable to look away. "Well, _that_ was unexpected..." She then averted her gaze and laughed nervously.

Thor stood still and grinned, feeling a little stupid himself, treasuring the moment he got to make Jane Foster blush before she shook her head, glancing at him before turning and heading towards class, leaving a slightly disappointed Thor standing alone. He watched her stagger off, uneasy, flustered at what he done. Thor didn't quite understand why kissing hands, which was customary for Asgardian males to perform to females they admired, unsettled the women he did it to. He remembered Isla had had a similar reaction to it yesterday, but had come to expect it gradually as time wavered past.

Thor stood resolutely and watched Jane disappear up the stairs, vanishing in the dissipating crowds up the stairs and into the courtyard. The thought of Isla quickly towed his mind in a different direction, and he suddenly pined for lunch all the more, the time in which he could see her again, potentially adding a new friend to the mixture, expanding the social group. _Two friends in two days, this is amazing! _he thought to himself.

Thor turned on his heels and strode down the hall, elated at how much better his morning was faring, until he heard disgruntled voices from around the corner, the now empty hallway housing a temperate echo as the bell rung, all sounds easy to catch off the resonate walls. Thor frowned as the words became definite, a horrible dread pitting his stomach.

"Look, Hendricks!" a cold sneer heeded. Thor's smile transformed into a glare as he recognized Arren's steely voice, rounding the corner to find Arren flanked by two other boys, mirroring his cruel expression as they cornered their prey. "The Asgardian weakling is surrendering to us."

Thor's heart lurched into his throat and he growled, storming up behind them and grabbing one of Arren's minions by the collar, pulling him out of the way and against a wall to reveal Loki, crossing his arms and staring at Arren with a vengeful look.

"Brother," Thor quickly snapped, Loki stiffening and retreating to Thor's side, feeling protected under Thor's mighty and angered shadow, brothers reunited.

Arren laughed, his cold cackle echoing from the walls while his companions stepped to his side, his amused, hazel eyes piercing Thor as he chortled, "Oh look at this! Isn't this just touching? The baby-brother has fled to his mommy for protection."

"You've stepped too far today, Coulson," Thor snarled, bristling at the insult and towering above him, both larger and more impressive than his counterpart, thick shoulders wide, the vein in his neck pulsing. "Leave here. Now."

"This is just as much my turf as it is yours, _Tom," _he quipped, folding his arms around his chest and leaning back, chin stuck in the air. "We're merely having the fun I've been deprived of for a week."

"My brother has done nothing to you, Coulson," Thor retorted, clenching his fists, hatred bottling inside him, ready to blow like a dormant volcano. "You're nothing more but an impudent bully!"

Arren's eyes flashed as he grinned. "Ouch. That hurt," he teased with a mocking tone. His friends grinned stupidly at his side, all thin, one with curly blond hair and the other with gelled, walnut spikes, snickering between themselves. "Come on, honestly Tom. A schoolyard felon could do better than that."

"Try my fist for better, _asshole!"_ Thor cried, raising his balled fist for the strike, thunder cracking in the distance as a pale hand shot out and grabbed his forearm, Loki rounding his side and restraining him, knuckles white and green eyes wide.

"Brother, don't," he said through gritted teeth, giving the expectant Arren a hostile glare. "He's not worth it. Walk away. Just leave it. Walk away."

Thor seethed, breathing hard, jaw clenched and teeth bared, his eyes wide in fury as he felt the might of the storm sizzling at his fingertips. _If I had Mjolnir, you'd be dead by now,_ Thor thought angrily, hissing at Arren and shucking Loki's hand from his arm.

"Fine," he growled behind his throat, grinding his teeth together as he stiffly turned, inhaling through his nose. "Come on, brother."

"Don't walk away from me!" Arren hissed, gritting his teeth as Thor strode proudly away, the anger still broiling with him. "Did you hear me?"

Loki walked at the brooding Thor's side, giving his brother a reassuring glance, a silent 'thank you' for coming to his aid.

"I said, DON'T WALK AWAY FROM ME!" screamed Arren, and before Thor could react, he heard a sickening crunch and a loud _bang, _wheeling around to see Arren grab his younger brother and smash his head into the lockers, driving his nails into Loki's scalp, Loki wincing in pain as he slid to the floor, the bruise on his forehead quickly fading, his cut lip bleeding, mortal form weaker than Aesir form.

Thor cried out in anger, striking out with a bared fist and knocking Arren backwards, sending the boy colliding into his friends, skidding backwards on the tile. Thor advanced, feeling his powers bursting within him, the raw force and brute strength waiting to be commanded, thunder cracking from the double doors at the far end of the hallway, the storm outside brewing with his emotions.

Arren shook his head, his cheek red and bleeding as he scrambled to his feet, spitting back, "You're crazy! You hear that, Asgard? You're crazy! My father WILL hear about this, and you'll be kicked out faster than you can say _mythology!" _

"Go crawling back to your nest, vermin!" Thor shouted, glaring at them with a murderous rage as the bullies fled, scampering back down the hallway and sliding around the corner, staggering and tumbling in fear and shock.

Thor grunted, muttering, "Good riddance." His anger calmed, the powers he wielded no longer needing to surface, rain pattering against the roof of the school as he turned back to the struggling Loki, sprinting to his side and kneeling down before him.

"Brother!" he gushed, grabbing the smaller youth by the shoulders and forcing him to his feet. "Brother, are you alright?"

Loki shouldered Thor's hands from him, shooting him a cold glare as he rubbed his forehead. "I'm fine," he snapped, wrinkling his nose. "Just...just leave me alone!"

"No, brother, you could be seriously hurt!" Thor refused, running after Loki and to his side as the black-haired youth stormed off, green eyes flashing as he headed towards the doors. "Brother, there could be internal damage! Brother, please, Loki, stop!"

"Why?" Loki challenged, wheeling and halting Thor in his tracks, green eyes hard and watering. "Why, Thor, should I stop to listen to you? Look, I know you're only playing the role of big brother here, but I can take care of myself! And right now, that includes staying the hell away from here for a couple of days! Do you _think_ that I tolerate this place without marginal effort? How do you _think_ I _live_ through every day of this madness? Is it because I ignore the mortals? Is it because I do it for father's appreciation? What do _you think, _Thor? Hmm! Give me a reason to stay!"

Thor halted, shaking as he clenched the jacket over his heart. "You... I..." He was speechless- the words wouldn't come as his anger crumbled, replaced with worry. "P-please, brother... I..."

Loki shook his head and sneered. "You can't. You can't think of a reason," he stated, voice flat as he swallowed, turning around and hunching his shoulders as he headed towards the door.

"Isla!" Thor finally managed, shouting out to Loki as the God of Mischief froze in his tracks, unable to move, rigid.

"Isla!" he continued. "Isla Selvig! P-please... Brother, stay so that I can introduce you to her! You don't know her yet! Per-perhaps she could be your friend. A friend when no one else will be! She has a good heart!"

Loki clenched his fists. "Isla. Selvig. Is. Not. My. Friend," he forced out, glowering at Thor from over his shoulder, his dark, jade eyes shining. "She... She..." He exhaled, breath hitching as he shook his head and continued towards the door, not looking back, sure footed as he tightened the scarf around his neck.

"Brother!" Thor shouted, but couldn't move as he watched Loki push past the doors, feet planted as Loki disappeared into the thick rain outside, feeling his heart break as his baby brother left him standing.

_"Brother!" _


	8. Days After

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

* * *

><p><strong>Eight- Days After<strong>

Art saved my day, by far. The teacher, with a warped perception of reality, but a genuine heart behind her drawing hand, was interesting to learn from. She let me draw in my sketchbook, which gained a part of the bonus points already awarded to Mr. Clark. Ms. Keaton was a sweet lady, a little bit off, but nice as she dismissed us ten minutes before lunch could even start. I took the time to wander, feeling at peace since I had gotten the apology out. I blushed as I strolled down the hallways, following my map, remembering how I had sprinted from that area to go hide somewhere else. The black-haired boy had stared at me the entire class, but it was easy to brush off. I felt free, elated- relishing not being bound by guilty feelings.

I paused, but started again with a smile, making my way down to the courtyard. _The storm is over, _I resigned, setting myself down in the middle of the courtyard, the exact bench the Asgards had occupied yesterday, and pulled out my sketchbook to draw. I was in the middle of a peaceful sketch of bouncing the ball on the black-haired boy's shoulder when the bell rung, the courtyard swarming with people navigating along the edges. I was left largely to myself, still enraptured in the mood created from Art, reflecting through sketching the events of PE.

Art seemed to be a more relaxing class than anything I'd had yet. Ms. Keaton, middle-aged widow, thought nothing of anything, not caring about whether we had general talent. It had made me nervous initially to be sat next to a freshmen with an undeniably good eye for color and shape, but Ms. Keaton had affirmed that it mattered not how good you were in the class, that it only mattered how willing you were to put in the effort, and let you inner critic go. I considered it a type of therapy, since I knew that I was my worst judge by far. I hadn't been scorned for my drawings in years.

I grinned to myself. It _had_ been flattering when she had seen me drawing a picture of rose, craning over itself, wilting, a stray petal floating down towards the white surface. I had smudged the sketch by accident during the course of its creation, but according to Ms. Keaton, it had only added authenticity to the piece, and she hung it up on display on her board, giving it my own little artist's signature in the corner. The people in the class seemed to have a similar optimistic mindset to hers, and had congratulated me and offered kind words of encouragement. "Good job, Isla!" "Wow, I wish I could work like you, Isla!" I felt pink and bursting at those words, unable to properly express my gratitude as the praise was handed so freely. The boy next to me offered to collaborate on an upcoming project, one by which we would draw a powerful high school scene.

Ethan, as I later learned his name was, was delighted to see my sketchbook, something that I had been reluctant to share. He was flipping through it when he caught the drawing of yesterday's lunch, all of us laughing, at ease with the times, his light, sapphire eyes skimming the pages with delight. It became our decided model to work from, and he helped edit it, giving a raw emotion to the drawing as he copied it and colored it, breathing life into the page as I watched, dumbstruck, fascinated.

Lunch was progressing, but I didn't notice as Sif came and sat by me. She cleared her throat, speaking up and pulling me from a recording of the black-haired boy's calculating expression. She raised both eyebrows, perhaps a little insulted that I hadn't noticed her arrival otherwise.

"So..." she drawled, pulling out her salad and splitting aside her chopsticks. "How's life?"

"Interesting," I replied, returning my gaze back to my work as I shaded his midnight hair. "Art was definitely one of my better classes."

"Thought it would be. You can't be parted with that thing even if your life depended on it," she observed, forking down a few leaves of lettuce before her chopsticks dropped in shock. "Oh... No way..."

I quickly looked up, erasing a stray mark as I asked, "What? What happened?"

Sif nodded over my shoulder, and I turned around to see Jane walking by Tom's side, a happy, earnest grin on her face while Tom walked plainly, less impressed, but smiled when he saw me nonetheless. I snapped my sketchbook shut and waved, throwing it into my backpack and jumping from the bench to go greet them. I sprinted to Jane's side, grateful to see her smiling at me again as I threw my arms around her shoulders and gave her a tight squeeze.

"Jane!" I breathed in relief, pulling back and smiling at her overwhelmed expression, feeling nearly teary that I was in the sweet girl's company again. "It's unbelievably good to see you!"

Tom laughed. "And I don't get a hug, too?" he asked teasingly, prodding me with a playful gesture in the ribs.

I giggled and nodded, being mindful of Jane as I declared, "Group hug!" I pulled Tom and Jane into a wide embrace, Jane obliging and Tom a little bit stunned, Sif laughing in amusement out of the corner of my eye. Tom tightened a hand around mine, still staying loyally at Jane's side while he lead us back to the table, sitting next to me, leaving Sif alone with Jane on the other side.

Sif's brown eyes sparkled like gems, gazing between us as she asked, "So, Tom... What calls for the guest in our group?"

"Ah, well, we had room, and I know for a fact that Isla's partial to Jane," he explained, squeezing my hand before letting it go, setting his large hands on the table. "The added company couldn't hurt. Plus, I accidentally knocked her over this morning."

My eyebrows rose, my interest peaked. "Really?"

Jane laughed and nodded, seemingly at ease to be with people during her lunch period, books aside. "He wasn't paying attention to where he was going and walked right into me," she giggled. "Tom's making it up to me with a lunch."

Tom gave a faint smile and nodded. "Sincerely. But in some ways, it's my reward for guessing her name correctly," he smirked, pulling out a can of soda and popping the lid.

Jane looked aghast. "It took you long enough, though!"

Sif turned to Jane, trying to be interested. "Ooh, do tell! What were his guesses?"

Jane fidgeted but continued her warm smile. "There was Jackie, Jaimie, Jenelle, Janet, and Jean..."

I laughed. "Sounds like everything _but_ Jane!"

Jane laughed and continued, but Tom remained largely silent, staring at his soda with a despondent look. Even Sif''s attention was caught, and she gradually warmed up to Jane, talking about the different things they both liked and discovering a shared interest in reading certain magazines.

I had begun to return my attentions elsewhere when Tom suddenly stole away one of my hands, gripping it tightly, as if trying to squeeze something out of it, his knuckles a few shades paler. I smiled up at him, drawing out of my sketchbook once more, but was feeling a little offset by Tom. I liked sharing a seat with him, my hand in his, but knowing that Jane was here made me somehow uncomfortable. I was grateful for my friends, but wanted to be considerate. However, a second glance at Tom while Sif babbled on told me that perhaps it wasn't the best idea to put Jane next to him: his eyes were darkened, brooding, seething like they had this morning. His grin wasn't easy- something was different, a certain spark in his attitude missing. In case he decided to be rude, I thought that it would be less awkward for poor Jane if I was sitting next to him to take the heat.

_Is this still because of Arren? _I thought, but quickly frowned and let the seniors talk, continuing to draw in my sketchbook while they chattered on. No, it couldn't be because of Arren just showing up. Something felt different about his distant expression- something personal had happened, and it was bothering him.

I decided to let it drop as lunch carried on, Tom politely talking with Jane. Sif was a little more than out of spirits to be sitting next to someone she deemed beneath her, but tolerated it because it made a moody Tom happy as she unleashed the full extent of .Jane's geeky, inner personality The conversation changed from class to sports to celebrities and so forth, but I never really participated. I was more keen on analyzing the morning. Events had definitively turned in a different direction, what with Arren and the apology, but I knew that things would settle down sooner or later. My heart thudded momentarily when I remembered that I had an off period and another class to go before the bus ride home, which I expected to share to some degree with the black-haired boy.

But then again, I always had Tom, and drawing, which seemed like the two outlets for my feelings at present.

Tom nudged me with a gentle hand, bringing me from my own little world as I looked up at him, his blue, topaz eyes grim as he forced a smile. "Time for class," he reminded as Jane packed up her bag and lunch. Sif had already vanished, heading to Choir, I supposed.

I smiled and shook my head. "Thanks, but you don't have to lead me anywhere today," I excused with a smile. "I have an off period!"

He looked a little taken back, but blinked in memory and nodded. "Oh, okay... What are you planning on doing, if I may inquire?"

"This," I answered, gesturing to my open sketchbook. Tom frowned at a few of the drawings, quickly grinning as he noticed the ones of him. "I expect that it'll make the time go by quicker than usual."

"It's a little chilly out here," Jane commented, shivering and pulling her jacket tighter over her shoulders. "Perhaps the library?" Her familiar awkwardness was strangely at ease, and that made me happy as I took in the suggestion. Library. A serene, quiet place. It seemed like the perfect place for drawing.

I nodded. "Sounds great!" I piped, placing my sketchbook back in my bag and letting Tom take me by the hand, leading me back through the courtyard and out into the hallways.

Jane followed us, both hands in her pockets, unaffected to a bewildering point that Tom was displaying a rude preference towards me. But then I frowned as the thought came to me- I didn't know Tom as well as I should've, but perhaps holding hands, like kissing them, was commonplace for him. He was a gentlemen in all other standards- perhaps it was just a sign of friendship, nothing more. I secretly hoped that this was true; Tom was a good friend, and I wanted to keep him that way. I hadn't ever had a boyfriend before (I blushed at the thought), but didn't feel ready for one at the moment. Small crushes aside, I had no romantic experience.

_Besides,_ I thought to myself as we rounded a last corner. _Jane and Tom make a cuter couple anyway. _

Tom stopped at a grand, glass door fringed with detectors and smiled down at me, releasing my hand and walking to Jane's side. "Here we go," he announced. "The library."

"Thanks so much, you two," I said endearingly, grinning at them both. "You're great people, honestly."

"Much obliged," Tom replied with a grin.

"You're welcome," Jane added, smiling plainly and politely, quieter than her boastful counterpart.

I pursed my lips, the thought coming to me as I watched them stand side by side, resolving to put the cherry atop the sundae as I walked up to them, taking a hand of Tom's in mine and a hand of Jane's in the other and clasping them together. Tom went rigid as Jane blushed, staring at me in silent wonder as Tom's fingers reflexively tangled in hers. I patted their hands and grinned, nodding and dismissing, "There, that's more like it. Have a good day!"

I waved back and disappeared into the library, glancing over my shoulder to see the results of playing match-maker. Jane was dipping her head, flushing and embarrassed while Tom had a small smile on his face, walking her away and out of sight, the newly budding couple coming to life. My heart danced in my chest as I smiled, hoping that it would go in the direction it should. I waved to the librarian, letting her know of my presence as I took a table and began to draw once more.

* * *

><p>My watch dinged once it hit the time I had set it to- five minutes before I had to pack up and leave for Economy. I sighed, lamenting the loss of precious drawing time as I shoveled my pencils into their pouch and packed it all away in my bag, filching out my schedule and map, preparing to guide myself as I tapped out into the hallway. I circled around, confused for a bit as I walked, but found my bearings quickly once I walked by Mr. Clark's classroom. I couldn't help as I looked inside, hoping to see my favorite teacher, but the classroom was still practically empty, only a few students sitting, but once I read the schedule of the class hours, I scolded life to learn that Mr. Clark wasn't here on these afternoons- this was when Chemistry class surfaced.<p>

I sulked and trudged off, following the route to Economy, dismayed to learn that I couldn't see Mr. Clark until tomorrow. I had wanted to talk to him about my days, receive his friendly advice- just to talk with him would've been nice. As I approached the door to Economy class, the future just seemed all too far away.

The Economy teacher, a gruff, burly Russian with a heavy mustache and dark, beady eyes halted me, speaking thickly, "And who are you, little girl?"

I gulped eyes wide as I clutched my scarf and schedule to my chest, intimidated by how unnaturally _large_ this man was, his stomach poking from beneath his thick jacket, his long, flowing black and gray beard reaching down to his chest. "Isla Selvig?" I stammered.

"Ah, Swedish girl, new girl," he answered, his accent almost making it hard to understand his words. "Still little girl."

"I'm not actually from Sweden..."

"You Swedish, come to country from Sweden," he interrupted, waving his hands. "You come to learn Economy, no?"

I nodded slowly. "Yes... Am I-"

"You in right place- you come in, and I give you papers," he ordered, turning around and bumbling back into the classroom. I hesitantly followed him, starting when he abruptly wheeled and gave me a hard look.

"One last thing," he stopped. "I Mr. Khodkevich. But please, call me K. Mister, K."

I raised both eyebrows at his name, thankful that I could call him otherwise as I timidly followed him through the growing classroom. He rummaged through some of the papers on his squalid desk before grabbing a few and handing them to me. "Now, you learn Economy," he nodded, grunting and heaving himself back towards the board, almost waddling underneath his weight. "Little girl sit with third table."

"I'm sorry?" I asked, following the finger he pointed towards the desk closest to the door. I paled when I saw a familiar figure sitting there- at first panicking that I had yet _another_ class with the boy from the bus, but the auburn, cropped mess of hair told me otherwise. I strode over to the table and took the empty seat next to Arren Coulson, the teenager massaging a red cheek, a thin, notched cut edging down his cheekbone, bruising as if he had been struck.

I knitted my brow in concern, gazing at him with questions burning in my eyes. He looked up and smiled, wincing as his cheek pulled uncomfortably. "Hey Isla," he greeted, hazel eyes twinkling, a swirl of lapis lazuli and a pale brown. "Good to see you again."

"What happened...?" I asked, fading off and gesturing to his cheek, biting my lip as a stray curl of my own hair drifted forward, fraying from my bangs.

He chuckled and shrugged. "Oh, this?" He ran his fingers over the tender flesh. "I ran into a... bit of a scene, if I can call it that, with a rather...ah, temperamental senior."

I shook my head. "Goodness, who? Did he attack you first?"

"You can say that, sure," Arren supplied, grimacing in the middle of his attempted sly smile.

The horror shone in my expression as I took in the information. "Who was it? The culprit, I mean," I questioned.

"A friend you rather respect by the name of Tom," he explained in an acrid tone, the venom not directed towards me, but towards my blond friend, the one whom I had set with a pure-hearted young woman. He set his gaze forward as Mr. Khodkevich started a lecture, scraping against the chalkboard with his ruler, dimming the lights and setting on a powerpoint as he explained economical deflation.

I exhaled, shocked that Tom had _hit_ Arren. "Tom? But... but he's-"

"A good kid, really, he tries," Arren interrupted, paralleling my hushed tone with his whispers. "But that reality of it was, he passed me in the hallway, and said hi to him, and he lost it. The crazy giant swung around and _bang! _Clipped me on the cheek."

"I...I..." I was in shock, unable to process my words, unbelieving at what I was hearing. Tom? Hit someone? "But- but why?..."

Arren shrugged, grinning at me through the dark. "He has a bit of temper- if he doesn't stand you, there's no limit to what he'll do at any unrestrained encounter. Probably the only reason that the fists weren't flying this morning at the bus-stop was because you were there, holding his hand."

I blushed and gazed down at my clasped hands, inhaling as I turned back to him and pursed my lips. "Are...are you going to report it?"

Arren chuckled and shook his head. "Not going to give him the satisfaction," he assured, clenching and unclenching his fists against the slate table. Blood and scratches ran along his knuckles, almost bruised as they hardened.

"Can...can I see your hand?" I asked uncertainly.

Arren turned to me and smiled. "Of course," he offered, sliding the uninjured hand towards me.

"No, the other one," I corrected, wrapping my fingers around his wrist as I brought the damaged hand towards me, observing the wounds closer as I frowned, glancing back up at him. "You didn't hit him back, did you?"

Arren grinned and shook his head. "No, not at all," he consoled. "When he punched me, I fell backwards, my hand scraping along the lockers and landing on the tile before I did. Those are mere flesh wounds- nothing directly caused by him."

He then retreated his hand back to his chest, hugging it as he pulled out a slip of paper and began writing down notes. I frowned, suspicious as I pulled out my binder and began doing the same. It didn't sound like Tom to hit without reason, but Arren had no reason to lie to me. But...his hand... It didn't look like the doing of a locker. I watched as Arren ground his teeth, his eyes cold but his smile pleasant, as impatient as I was for class to end.

* * *

><p>The snow had started to fall heavily again, flecks of white dusting downwards as I ducked out of the front of the building. Class had ended all to slowly, Mr. Khodkevich's lecture dragging to no avail. The class wasn't hard- just boring. It was the low point of the day as I had shoved my binder back into my bag, pining after a glimpse of my sketchbook nestled between notebooks as I made my escape. Arren had been polite enough, saying good-bye when appropriate, still nursing the wound on his face.<p>

Several people bumped me, a couple boys exclaiming, "Hey! Watch where you're going, gorgeous!" I curved in my shoulders, self conscious of the crowds.

"Sorry..." I mumbled to no one in particular. I shyly tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and continued on, the tips of my shoulders layering with snowflakes, my boots barely keeping a grip as they slid through the sidewalk. The buses were having an easier time in the dismal weather than I was, the occasional windscreen wiper shifting over the class to flush away a covering of wet sludge. I saw Tom waiting outside our bus, smiling as he saw me come into view. I smiled back, but still felt haunted by Arren's words. I strode to Tom's side, the easy senior grinning again, but the storm was still deep within his eyes, unsettled.

"Hey," I greeted, relaxing a little in his presence, Arren's claims nagging me from the deep reaches of my thoughts. Tom felt different now, like my trust was being tested.

"Hey," he returned, making to lead me onto the bus by the hand, but I shook my head and pulled back.

"No, Tom, I need to talk to you out here," I stated firmly, squeezing his fingers and keeping him at the bus's side.

His brow knitted in confusion as he halted, fingers suddenly unsure in mine, eyes wary. "What is it?" he asked.

"Arren Coulson," I remarked, glancing around to reassure myself that we could carry on unheard. "He has a brutal cut on his face, and he claims that he received it from you."

Tom blinked, face emotionless.

"So?" I persisted, anxious for an answer. "Did you or did you not attack him?"

"I did," he affirmed in a flat tone, eyes turning cold as his smile disappeared.

I exhaled, letting go of his hand to fold my arms across my chest, frowning up at him as Tom towered above me. "Tom- I... Why? Why would you _do_ that? All he said was 'hi'! You had no right!"

Tom immediately bristled, clenching his fists as his jaw went rigid. "He _lied_ to you, Isla!" he snapped angrily, grabbing my forearm and heaving me closer to him til our eyes met. "Coulson attacked first! He struck with a desire to harm!"

My eyes went wide as he clutched me, trembling as I forced out, "But-"

"No buts!" Tom barked, stunning me as he grabbed my upper-arms and shook me. "Isla, don't listen to him! _Ever! _Do you understand? Coulson is bad news and he'll _hurt_ you when he gets the chance! You are _nothing_ to him!"

"Why?" I stammered, frightened as he loomed over me, feeling insignificant in his shadow.

Tom's fingers dug into my skin, a brutal strength that made me yelp, his teeth grinding together as he snarled, "Because that's just the way he is! It's his _nature! _Trust the scorpion, Isla, and you will get stung! Do you understand?"

I nodded, my heart racing in my ears, practically dangling in his clenched grasp, quivering as he fumed in anger, no longer the Tom I had come to know. My eyes had started watering when Sif hopped down from the bus, appearing shaken as she snapped, "Tom!"

Tom started and instinctively released me, dropping me down the inch to the ground. I rubbed my arms as Sif walked over to me, wrapping a reassuring arm around my shoulders, scowling at her now flustered and embarrassed cousin as she scolded, "You thick, insolent _brute! _Control your temper before you do something you'll regret!"

Tom's breathing was hard as he whimpered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to calm down, hiding his face in his hands. Still shaking, my upper-arms sore, Sif lead me onto the bus, pulling me to the back to sit at her side. The bus was less crowded as she consoled me with calming words, letting me have the window seat to section me from the other group, members Finley sitting behind me and peering over the seat with raised eyebrows. The initial shock over, I watched as Tom walked rigidly onto the bus, giving me a grossly apologetic look, nervously sitting down opposite Sif as he stammered, "Isla! Isla, I'm sorry... I... I didn't mean-"

"It's fine, Tom," I grinned weakly, forcing myself to breath as I shrugged. "We all have bad days."

Sif distracted him as I watched more students load onto the bus, partly hoping to see the black-haired boy, wondering what had become of my own apology. I sifted through the lines of students sorting themselves into seats, not paying attention to my surroundings, even glancing out my window to look for his familiar, thoughtful face and darkened green eyes. The bus lurched into gear, and my face fell- he hadn't come. The thought crossed my mind of the scenario that he was _avoiding_ me, but I quickly shook it from my mind. I refused to believe that his sudden absence was because of me.

I hadn't messed up _that_ badly, had I?

The seconds soon progress into minutes, then to hours, and before I knew it, I had finished bearing through another one of Tom's desperate pleas of apology at the bus and had walked home with Andrew, grinning and bearing through my mother's interrogations of my day and my father's lectures on science and teenagehood. Even Andrew had his share of dominating my attention, ranting about how unfair life was to him while I sat silently and did Economy homework. And when I wasn't filling in the hours with my family, I was sitting and drawing, lost in trying to capture the black-haired boy's face while I added in a sketching of Tom lifting me up, shaking me, enraged that I had been lied to. It only made the curiosity on their back-story worsen, but I ultimately decided that it wasn't my business. As long as I minimized interactions with Arren, I shouldn't have a problem.

I perfected the cut across Arren's cheek and smiled, inclined forward over my sketchbook as I sat on my bed, the night outside dark as it streamed in through my open curtains, a hazy moon hidden behind a thin fog of clouds. _Well,_ I thought. _There wasn't a lack of boredom without friends here. _

I got up the next morning with a renewed determination- I _would_ meet with the black-haired boy, at least see him in action, wondering whenever our paths crossed if he had accepted my apology and forgiven me, despite my plonking him with a basketball. I shoveled down my breakfast and opened the door to find Finley and Sif waiting for me, taking on the duty from Andrew of walking me to the bus. Andrew and Sif exchanged a glance while Finley lead me outside by the arm. The conversation pleasant, I couldn't help but be distracted as I watched Arren's house, seeing him come from his door with a hardened expression, the cheek wound cut across with two bandaids, gloves concealing his hands. Tom had continued his apologies at the bus stop while Arren kept his distance. It took awhile to reassure Tom that the worse he had done to me was scare me, but that hadn't been something to dwell on besides the mystery it had raised. The thing that had unnerved me at the bus-stop was, however, the continued absence of the black-haired boy. I didn't inquire Sif or Finley about it, but something seemed wrong. I kept glancing at the stop-sign, hoping that he would magically appear, but he never came. We walked onto the bus, strangely alone, and I pursed my lips, nervous at the hole in our group.

I otherwise went through my normal morning routine, conversing with a strangely enlightened and jovial Jane in the brief minutes before Physics. Mr. Clark hadn't changed at all, only his clothes different as he showed us several YouTube videos on crazy experiments performed by teenagers our age. I continued to sit in the back and draw, sometimes finding myself recording images from the videos, the occasional Mr. Clark standing off to the side, his dark glasses and young face highlighted in the projected screen, teased brown hair thick on his head. He dismissed me with a smile at the door and I cautiously ventured down the stairs, not tripping, not picking out a familiar face from the gaggles of students walking with me, the hallways devoid of my particular teenager.

I stayed confined to the Photography classroom, hoping to see him, but his seat went through the period empty. Darcy had been friendly, greeting me with a curt 'hello' before ducking out to take her own pictures. I wouldn't have minded that if it weren't for my hollow, aching chest. The bell rung, signaling time for lunch, and I packed my bag, walking out to greet a waiting Tom by the door.

A particularly bad storm of snow had rendered the courtyard unpleasant to eat in and our typical group was forced into the cafeteria. Jane joined us, sitting next to Tom and I while Tom's cousins squeezed into the opposite side. Jane seemed to fit in rather well, and managed the coax the words from Hayden that he wouldn't offer even to me. She was bright and smart, and made a poor Vlad feel rather unintelligent as she talked about particle sciences. Tom, however, listened, rapt by her words, most likely not comprehending their meaning, but silently grateful for Jane's presence.

The day continued without another sighting of the black-haired boy. I sat alone in English after gritting it through a wretched period of Trigonometry, Mr. Blake getting out his guitar to play us a song about Cloten, a spoiled prince, as we read more of Cymbeline. The vacant space next to me made me almost miss the black-haired boy, and I nervously drew the scene of sitting by myself in my sketchbook on the way home. Mr. Blake had assured me on my way out that my partner was feeling sick and couldn't attend school, and I prayed desperately that illness was the cause.

The events repeated the next day, the routine well and truly settled as Tom walked me to the bus-stop, lead me to lunch from Art, all other classes being something to silently sit through. The black-haired boy still hadn't shown up, and I walked around in PE, alone. Art made things slightly bearable, while Economy wore my patience on edge, Arren being a polite and simple partner, helping me when necessary and offering kind words of advice, his cheek still angrily raw and bruised, his knuckles minutely scraped.

Once at home, I buried myself in my sketchbook, saving homework for the weekend on the Thursday evening while I dressed blank pages in black and white sketches. I tried to draw the black-haired boy, but his face wouldn't come to mind, the horrid missing mystery of the drawings setting my tolerance on end. No matter how much I lined, shaped, shaded, and smudged, nothing would come out _exactly_ like how I wanted it. His face was no longer in perfect memory, and the recordings kept getting worse and worse.

I finally gave up, throwing my sketchbook on the floor and shutting off my lamp, not looking forward to the morning as I shut my eyes, a flash of green splintering behind my lids. I shivered, the world overcome suddenly with a layer of black, and I was left to the mercy of my dreams and a longing to see the black-haired boy once more.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks to Loki's Little Helper, bayumlikedayum, Leslie, LoveFromAlli01, and Anti-social for being constant reviewers, and great, supportive people. Check out Loki's Little Helper's story Grounded for some more Loki/OC action. In addition, I have drawn out Arren Coulson and Isla (I'm a horrible artist, unlike her), but if you're curious, the links are posted on my profile under the section labeled UPDATE- **_**the Gap**_**. **


	9. Return

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

* * *

><p><strong>Nine- Return<strong>

I had made the Asgards promise that, come Friday morning, I would walk to the bus-stop on my own, to prove that I could take care of myself after the week-long nannying. It was a groggy Friday, the fog outside my window thick as I parted the curtains, curious of the outside. I got dressed in no particular hurry and checked Andrew's room, his door parted, my brother dead asleep, backwards on his bed with his head hanging over the edge and feet propped up on a pillow, sheet in a mess on the floor. His curtains were drawn and his clothes strewn about the carpet, boxes of half unpacked belongings lined against the wall, his computer on screen saver.

I smiled to myself and then walked downstairs, assuming that he had stayed up all night again to work on his novel. The house felt strangely empty as I made myself breakfast, my father gone for work and my mother out, probably doing the shopping. I guess the early bird always got the bargains at the super store. The toast popped from the toaster and I lathered it butter and jam, humming to myself my favorite melody all the while.

I sat alone at the dining room table, drinking my orange juice and slowly eating my toast, part of me regretting telling Tom not to pick me up. In this particular moment, I felt no urge to be alone, the quiet unnerving. It just reminded me of how vacant English classes had now begun to feel, the black-haired boy and his captivating green eyes vanished. Even if it was just two days absent, his vacancy was noticeable, and it was beginning to drive me crazy. I remembered the small gesture of kindness he had shown me Monday, his pale hand resting over the pages of my copy of Cymbeline as he showed me to the correct page- or when my sketchbook had fallen open to an embarrassing image, and he had simply leaned down to pick it up with ease, returning it to me from the floor.

I shut my eyes, praying that those were signs that he didn't hate me, but the prolonged absence was proving to me otherwise.

I slipped my lunch into my bag just as Andrew came tumbling down the stairs, dragging his feet as he plodded into the kitchen, eyes wide and bloodshot, his hair wild as he turned around, the empty coffee pot in his hand as he gave me an insistent look. "Where's the coffee?" he demanded in a slur, reaching up to rub his eyes when he staggered.

I laughed. "You'll have to make it yourself," I mothered, shouldered my bag and giving him a brief, unwelcome hug.

He narrowed his eyes as me, wobbling on his uneasy, just woken up legs. "But...but I need coffee!" he pleaded, the dark rings under his eyes evident as he panicked. "I'm in the middle of the middle of this chapter and it's horrible and someone's about to _die!" _

"Sounds urgent," I commented, taking an apple from the fridge and shoving it into my backpack.

"Coffee..." he moaned as he stared at the empty pitcher. I strode out the living room, confident in my ability to take care of myself as I left my brother behind.

"Bye, Andrew!" I called back, opening the door and locking it behind me with the key I had acquired at dinner last night, closing out his groan in midway. The fog was dampening my clothes, the cold humidity thick in the air as I shivered, exhaling and shoving my gloved hands into my pockets, dew collecting on a few stray strands of hair.

A door slammed in the house next door to us, and I glanced over to find Arren trudging off his front porch, giving me a small smile as he waved. I rounded my picket fence and nodded to him. "Hey Arren," I acknowledged.

"Hey, Isla, wait up!" he called, sprinting up to my side as I hesitantly stood, biting my lip while he gave me a smile, white teeth flashing. "What's up?" The scratch along his cheek pulled as he grinned, shifting along his flesh almost sickeningly. The injury didn't look any better than it had, still red, but the bruising seemed less, the scabs not so many in quantity. It gave him a rugged look, a damaged look, his easy smile weak as he brooded, aware that he looked beaten.

"Not much," I answered, slowly starting back up the hill while he walked eagerly back at my side. I hadn't mentioned to him, or even hinted that Tom had told me that he had lied. I didn't believe either of their stories to any extent, and tried not to dwell as Arren spoke.

"Happy Friday," he assented, both hands tucked in his pockets while his breath shone before his lips. "What are you doing on the weekend?"

"I think Tom invited us for tea..." I drawled, but quickly realized my mistake as his expression fell.

"Oh."

"It's nothing much," I covered too quickly, swallowing through the lump in my throat, appeasing his despondent expression. "His parents just want to meet me- that's all."

"His parents," Arren laughed. "They're crazy; just a hint of warning."

His words struck a chord within me and I scowled. "I'll decide my opinions for myself, thank you," I snapped, tired of being warned away from people. I picked up my pace, aiming to keep ahead of him without the intent of furthering the conversation, remembering my resolve to keep interactions between him and I in the dark.

The fog was heavy as it rolled down the hill, but I was determined, cresting the top and turning down Burnish Creek from Willowy lane, Arren's footsteps echoing behind me. I could distantly make out the orb of yellow light hanging suspended near the bus-stop, beckoning me as I crunched through the icy sidewalk, but still felt isolated from the group I knew to be there. The houses faded in and out of the mist next to me, but I held true to my course. Slowly, several figures emerged in the distance, large and tall, slender and dark. I squinted when I counted them, finding instead of four from the last two days, there were five.

My heart skipped a beat when I drew closer, seeing the black-haired boy appear at the stop-sign, his figure becoming defined as he leaned against the pole, hazy, absent expression on his angular face. His skin was luminescent in the horrible light, shining and clear, black hair stroked back in its familiar throw while his green eyes met mine darkly, black, thin trench coat pulled up to hide his neck. I ducked from his gaze, feeling my face heat as the embarrassment and worry crept free again. I crossed the street rigidly, Tom standing with Sif and his other cousins, all relatively silent. Sif smiled as I came into view, and I tried to grin back, but my mind was a maelstrom of thoughts, excitement, worry- the black-haired boy had returned. I felt his eyes on me as I hopped up the curb and strode to Tom's side, self conscious that the black-haired boy was watching me.

"Told you I could make it," I grinned, fidgeting as the black-haired boy's gaze continued pressingly against the back of my neck.

Tom smiled back and nodded, the gesture reaching his blue eyes and prompting an inward sigh of relief from me. "You did good. I thought the mist would deter you, but you have proved me valiantly wrong."

"Mwhaha," I cackled maniacally, reaching up to gaze through steepled fingers. "My evil plan is complete."

Sif snickered down at me. "So, ready to conclude the week?" she asked, both brows raised.

"Sure... Let's say that," I hesitated, biting my lip through another smile as my hands dropped to my side.

Finley looked over my shoulder from Vlad's side, grinning as Arren's footsteps resounded from the curb. "How's the cheek, Coulson?" he greeted with a laugh. I peered over my shoulder as Arren shot a dark glare back at Finley, resulting in even more laughter. Arren gave me a slightly hard look, the question burning in his hazel eyes: _Why, Isla? Why do you tolerate them? _

_Behave,_ I reprimanded with another glance, warning him with widened eyes until I felt another pair leave me. My gaze was quickly distracted towards the black-haired boy as he turned his head back, his shoulder hunching minutely, avoiding the gaze of the pacing Arren and I.

I caught myself staring, reluctantly pulling myself back into the conversation Tom was leading as the bus screeched around the corner. My heart was thundering in my chest, the shock that I he had returned not quite wearing off as I was ushered onto the bus, following the black-haired boy and Arren as Tom held my hand, still staying loyally at my side. It comforted me to know that Tom was there, that he wouldn't let me do anything stupid as I sat down at his side and wallowed, contemplating and struggling over the black-haired boy's sudden reappearance.

The black-haired boy sat down only a few seats away, on the opposite aisle, closer to where he had sat my first day of school, but still with distance. _Was he conscious of me?_ I hoped so, desperately wanting to ask him whether or not I was forgiven. But the silence prevailed, the bus jerking back and forth as it launched down the streets, finally arcing along a final hill with a full load of acquired passengers, halting before the school as the brakes engaged.

I sighed, taking my backpack from my feet and standing as I followed suit of the students ahead, my eyes glued to the black-haired boy as I was shepherded from the bus and onto the pavement. I gave the Asgards a loose farewell as I headed towards Physics, ready for my third class, terrified of Photography and English. Mr. Clark took the hinting look I threw at him in the beginning of the class, the look that told clearly that I did _not_ want to be disturbed as I took my seat in the back of the classroom.

* * *

><p>"Hey cupcake," Darcy crooned as I walked into Photography, avoiding a dimpled smile from Ms. Greene as I hugged my sketchbook to my chest. Darcy was wearing a plaid hat and an abominably fluffy scarf, dark lips wide and grinning as she walked up to my side, crossing her arms. "You're stuck with me today."<p>

"I am?" I asked uncertainly, quickly scanning the classroom to search for the black-haired boy.

"Yes," she affirmed. "You are. My other friend is sick with the flu, so you're going to entertain me for the next hour and a half."

"I'll try," I promised, now conscious that the black-haired boy had already beaten me to his seat. He was sitting his hands folded in front of him, not looking at anything in particular until he noticed me with wide green eyes, pursing his lips and slowly reaching up with a hand to hide his face, long fingers shaping around his temple as he looked away.

I exhaled, prying my gaze back to Darcy as she tightened her arms and tapped her foot. "So, today we have to work with Photoshop," she explained, gesturing to the board when I didn't continue the conversation. "Any preference as to where we sit?"

The black-haired boy snuck a reassuring peak at me, and I stiffened, whirling around to face the opposite direction. "No computer in particular- let's just go," I stammered.

My cheeks went bright red and I took my seat at one of the computers, facing away from the black-haired boy and towards the wall while Darcy chattered nonsensically at my side. I logged on while she spoke, the bell ringing in the background.

"So, anyway, how's the first week going, cupcake?" she inquired, tapping on her own keyboard as she entered her information, the camera hooked to the USB port by her side.

I bit my lip and pulled out my own camera, sighing, "It's been...interesting."

"What are you planning for Mr. Blake's project?" she continued, her face highlighting as the screen lit with blue light.

I drummed my fingers impatiently, my computer considerably slower than hers. "Just a drawing," I excused, having an internal panic moment when I realized that I had absolutely no clue what I was going to do for the project.

"I'm going to use this picture," Darcy explained, pulling up a new window and gesturing to the image, a simple image of the locker she had been taking photos of all week. "And I'm going to warp it and twist it using photoshop, saving each stage as a separate file, until I have a complete, smooth transition to an undamaged locker."

I exhaled heavily, both eyebrows raised. "Cool."

She glanced down the row of computers and then giggled, her glass flickering as she laughed, "Hey look, the cutie-pie you ran over on Monday decided to sit nearby."

Stiff, I quickly looked to my side to see none of than the black-haired boy sitting just three seats down, typing away at computer but side glancing towards Darcy and I, leveling our gazes momentarily before he looked away again.

"I think he can hear you..." I murmured, shunting my vision from him.

"Like hell he can," Darcy giggled, opening up the files as she began her work. I tried to focus, but couldn't, knowing that he was so close by. Deep laughter echoed down to my left, down to where the black-haired boy was nervously working, his long fingers persistent over the keyboard as masculine voices cut through the awkward quiet.

"Hey, look, Softie's back," said the first one, taking the seat next to the black-haired boy, his curly blond hair shaggy as it hung over his eyebrows, loose clothing unflattering to his physique. He playfully tapped the black-haired boy on the upper arm. "Looks like ol' Coulson really did you a number, there."

"I wonder if we can still see the bruises," giggled the second, and the black-haired boy shrugged his hand from his shoulder.

"Leave me alone, Henry," the black-haired boy ordered quietly, wrinkling his nose. I couldn't help but stare as they teamed up against him, surrounding him, a third putting his feet on the back of the black-haired boy's chair.

"Ooooh," Henry cooed, flipping his atrocious haircut to the side. "Look at this. Softie's fightin' back again."

The black-haired boy appeared impassive, continuing to work as he ignored them. The third boy, with his feet on the chair, glanced over at me, meeting my gaze as he smiled wickedly. "Looks like your pretty girlfriend's got glue eyes," he snickered, and I went bright red and turned away, letting a curtain of hair drape forward to hide my expression. "Can't stop staring at your pretty, stupid face."

"She's not my girlfriend," the black-haired boy corrected quietly, his tenor voice musical compared to their gruff altos. "She never has been, and never will."

They all laughed, Henry slapping his knees. "Word has it Coulson's got his eye on her," he chortled, his dark eyes pressing on me. The black-haired boy's fingers continued to tap at the keys.

"Oh come on, don't play silent!" Henry snapped. "We all know it's true."

I felt my heartbeat rise, the rouge in my cheeks warming as I thought, _What were they talking about? Coulson was nevermore than friendly to me! _

"Coulson's already moved on from Maria, has he?" the black-haired boy asked flatly. "Good for him."

"Who? Maria Hill? That old heartbreak?" Henry specified, waving his hand in the air. "Course not. Found someone a lot easier on the eyes, now that the new girl's in town."

"So, Softie, you gonna fight for your girlfriend?" the third boy challenged.

"She's not my girlfriend," the black-haired boy corrected again, fingers continuing at the keys.

"Yeah right!" the second one laughed. "Heard she got all gooey on you in PE."

"She was merely apologizing," the black-haired boy defended.

"After slamming you with a basketball?" Henry snickered. "How romantic. So, what are you gonna do on your first day? Have her jump from a building and land on you? Good ol' S and M?"

The black-haired boy stopped at the keyboard, falling silent. I snuck a glance to see him seething where he sat, glaring at Henry. "Leave her alone," he growled, green eyes threatening.

"Oh? Or what?" the third countered.

"You going to smash our own heads into the lockers?" cooed the second.

"She can hear you, you dunce."

"Whoa, Softie's growing a pair," marveled Henry. "You wanna dance, pretty-boy?"

"Nah, dance with his girlfriend. It'll piss off Softie," the second suggested, punching the black-haired boy in the shoulder.

"Not unless Coulson 'dances' with her first," Henry sneered. "How do you like that image, pretty-boy? Coulson with your girl on his lap."

The black-haired boy sat in silence, eyes wide, inhaling and exhaling at a growing pace. "Coulson can date her for all I care," he finally said. "It's her life. Not yours, so don't speculate."

Henry threw his head back and howled in laughter. "Don't speculate!" he repeated, wiping his eyes. "We aren't speculating, my friend. We _know, _that's what! Get your move on before all the good girls are taken for the Winter Dance."

Henry then stood, snickering with his friends as they got up and sauntered off to the other side of the room, high-fiving each other and slapping their shoulders, staggering about like competing gorillas. Their tortuous work was done, leaving the black-haired boy sitting in his chair, a grim look on his face as he slid his gaze over to me, thin lips pursed.

I covered my mouth with a hand and looked away, staring at my pictures and wondering what was wrong with me. My stomach churned, confused, hurt, and sickened by their words. I felt myself go all shades of green, feeling suddenly lost and nauseated.

Darcy glanced over at me, double-taking when she saw my expression, eyes narrowing. "You okay, Isla?" she asked uncertainly.

I nodded stiffly, taking my hand from my mouth, trembling. "Yeah, it's just...it's just a passing thing," I replied, the black-haired boy's emerald gaze on me.

* * *

><p>Neither lunch nor trigonometry saved me. Lunch was burdened through, my teeth grinding in anxiety and disgust the entire time, unable to stomach my food as I sat still and furiously drew. Tom had noticed the mood change, but decided to drop the subject, reading me with Mr. Clark's understanding attitude. Trig was as worse as ever, Mrs. Spencer somehow even <em>more<em> grumpy because it was Friday, and had felt free to indulge us in three new assignments due Tuesday, no excuses, along with an essay. I felt like my mentality was slowly slipping, one finger at a time, from the cliff, promising myself that English would be okay.

I strode into the classroom to be greeted with an overbearing Darcy practically jumping on me. "Isla! Isla, are you feeling better?" she persisted, dark eyes wide behind her frames.

I gulped, nervously glancing at my seat. The black-haired boy wasn't to be seen yet, the shared table empty, still to my own. I heaved a breath and nodded towards Darcy. "Yes, Darcy, I'm fine," I assured, ducking around her before she could badger me with anymore inquiries.

Mr. Blake smiled and waved at me, undeterred by my distance for the last few days, and glanced down to his own copy of Cymbeline. I shook my head, mouthing that I had my own and gestured to my backpack. He then smiled and gave a thumbs up, though I felt slight remorse for the lack of annotations in my brand new issue of the play, no guide from a well rounded English teacher, and I sighed as I placed myself down in my seat, letting my backpack fall to my feet.

The black-haired boy walked plaintively into the classroom as I stared at the door, his arms crossed and his expression cool, olive green scarf floating behind him as he strode lithely, slowing down when he caught a glimpse of me at the table. He visibly gulped, almost blanching as I did, taking his seat cautiously next to me with raised eyebrows. He sat stiffly, shoulders hunched, fidgeting, uncomfortable, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists, elbows on the table, gaze fixed forwards.

I quickly got out my own copy of Cymbeline, trying to look busy as I skimmed through the scenes we had already written.

"You won't need that today," a soft voice said quietly, and I glanced up to meet the gaze of the black-haired boy. His pale skin was nearly glowing in the florescent light, a dim shine that broke into multiple hues, gentle around the angle of his cheek.

I glanced towards the board and took in the directions, inhaling, blushing in embarrassment that my escape had been taken. I leaned down and set my book back in my bag. The black-haired boy only stared emotionlessly as I squirmed.

Mr. Blake bounced to the front of the classroom, clapping his hands as the bell rung and asking that all standing take a seat. I re-situated myself against my stool as he spoke. "Welcome back, bright, young learners, and happy Friday! A true blessing that the week's over, eh? So, to reward you guys for all the hard work you've been putting through on Cymbeline, I'm letting you all work on your art projects for the entire period!"

The class silently congratulated themselves, victory dances popping up from several seats scattered around while Mr. Blake chattered on. But I wasn't paying attention, not half-hearing the words he said as I pulled out my sketchbook and immediately set myself to drawing, recording the images of the day, not wanting to survive in this reality and instead escape to my own.

The black-haired boy squirmed in the seat next to me, provoking curious side-glances from me while he tried to work at the glistening laptop he had brought out, long fingers impatient, his leg twitching. I raised boy eyebrows as he cleared his throat, glancing towards me, eyes burning with unknown words. I gazed back as his lips parting, trying to say something, but the words wouldn't come out.

I raised an eyebrow, pursing my lips as my pencil wavered in my hand.

He swallowed, avoiding my gaze as he finally said, "I'm sorry about what Henry said during Photography." A faint blush hid in his cheeks. "I don't know if it's true, and I realize that it probably upset you. It's...he's..."

"Don't mention it," I quickly rescued, my jaw locked as his words fell apart. He gaped at me, blinking, measuring my expression carefully as I returned to drawing. "He was just being a stupid teenager. Please, forget about it. It's done- over."

"Oh." He blinked and turned away, a stray finger on his laptop as he nodded. "Right. Well, then..."

Neither of us spoke for the rest of the class, him lost in whatever he was writing on his laptop while I buried myself behind the covers of my sketchbook, each of us intent on keeping the silence until class was called to an end.

* * *

><p>"Isla! I tried to save you a seat, but fat-ass here-"<p>

"Hey! Watch what you say, thunder-thighs!" Vlad retaliated, teaming up with an already peeved Finley to wrestle Tom and give him a noogie.

I smiled and laughed, the bus more crowded than usual on the Friday afternoon. The Asgards sat in the back, Tom struggling under the combined effort of his cousins while Sif and Hayden looked on with silent laughter. "It's okay, guys, I'll just sit somewhere else," I nodded simply, Sif giving me a guilty look.

I scanned the bus, hoping for a seat to myself, but there was hardly one I could even share with someone. After a brief, deliberating moment, I spotted a free space and sprinted to it, swinging on my wrist as I fell back into the chair, conscious of the person next to me as I sighed, reaching down to pull my sketchbook back out from hiding, placing it on my lap when my gaze ventured to my neighbor. My eyes widened and I started.

"Oh-" I gasped, voice quavering, hands shaking as I clutched my sketchbook. "I didn't-"

The black-haired boy only stared at me simply, huddled to himself with an impassive expression, cheek pinks from the cold outside while he shook his head. "No, it's fine."

My nerves grated and I stiffened, trying to allow him as much room as possible in the closely allowed space. He hugged his satchel on his lap while my own bag bowed limply at my feet, both locked in silence as I nervously sketched. It was a futile effort to avoid the conversation I thought was coming. But when my pencil brushed the paper for the beginning stroke, I felt no image come to mind. Everything was blank.

I glanced at the black-haired boy again and my breath hitched, coming up with an idea as he gazed out the frostbitten window. Winter on the way, our breath visible before our lips, I furiously drew a picture of Vlad and Finley tackling Tom for a noogie, their faces affectionate and expressive despite the combat of masculinity. The image of the perfect family, willing to embrace each other and play, whereas the most affection I was allowed from my brother was the occasional smile. It made me pine for a quiet home all the more, and the drawing increased a brooding envy of the Asgards. I quickly changed from that scene to just drawing a simple rose I had seen on Mr. Blake's desk, in full bloom with a startling crimson that contrasted the oak of his desk.

I heard a breath exhale, impressed, and I glanced up unsurely to see the black-haired boy puzzling down at my work, and for a rare, glistening moment, he was smiling. I held my breath and my heart stopped beating for a few precious seconds as I watched him do something he had never done before for me. The distant smile on his face faded as he watched my hand stop, glancing up to pause with a reserved look, eyes wide and imploring.

"You draw well," he complimented

I struggled to think of an answer, unsettled by the sudden act of kindness. My chest almost swelled with hope- _had he forgiven me? _His green eyes flashed as I gulped.

"Yes, well..." I stammered, lying, "I've had a lot of coaching and practice." Well, it wasn't half a lie- I had been drawing like this since I was six. My mind was barely registering the facts, my lips still parted agape that the black-haired boy, the dark beauty I had been so worried about all week, was speaking to me as if nothing had ever happened. My neck tingled from the absent feeling of a scarf and I felt pink.

"Mainly more practice than anything..." I corrected, shifting my gaze with unsure eyes back to my sketchbook. "I think I'm only halfway decent."

He dipped his head, inching closer to get a better view, a fist clenching as he raised his hand slowly, gracefully. "May I?" he asked, glancing back up, a hand slightly outstretched for the sketchbook between mine.

My mind went completely blank as my fingers relaxed, instinctively offering him the sketchbook. I was thinking clearly when I animatedly replied, "Sure."

His lips tugged in a small, brief grin as he took the sketchbook from me, blinking, emerald eyes powerful. He flipped through the pages, starting at the beginning, entranced as he saw the evolution of my drawings from sixth grade to tenth. The sketchbook was thick, pages crinkled and abused at the tips and spine, fabric cover delicate underneath his careful fingers. "I didn't know that you made up characters," he mused.

"Oh no," I laughed nervously. "They're real people." I reached out a tentative hand and turned several of the pages, leaving it on a page of a spanning picture of my family. His green eyes sparkled. "See? That's my family. Mom, dad, and Andrew."

He pursed his lips. "They all look like they're in pain," he said slowly, turning an inquiring gaze back to me.

I blinked, leaning towards his shoulder as I took in which picture I had turned to. The uncomfortable expression on our faces- it had to be our family photoshoot. "That's when we went to a store to take our pictures as a family," I explained, anxious. "Our photographer was terrible. He had his computer facing our way and we could see his disastrous work."

He smirked softly, his entire face lighting up with the gesture, listening to my words with an honest enjoyment. But it quickly fell once more as he returned to his scanning of the pages, flipping through until he stopped at specific page, one smeared with a few tear marks, entirely covered with pictures of him- the pictures that I had drawn of him Monday night during my venting session.

He quickly frowned, but didn't look up while I froze, horrified, shaking. I couldn't think of what to say, the full stupidity of my generousity hitting me in the worst-case scenario. My entire face ached in my blush while I squirmed, impatient to have my sketchbook back as soon as possible.

"I...I take images or...scenes...that I see, and I draw them..." I stuttered slowly, wincing. "It's... It's almost a way of making sense of them... I saw the look you wore during English class on Monday, and thought that your expression was interesting, and I couldn't shake... I drew it, but it's ghastly..."

The black-haired boy looked up at me emotionlessly, eyes bland, the brief sparks gone. I wiggled briefly, feeling uncomfortable on the fabric of the seat and hot. I bit my lip, extending a quivering hand, shyly avoiding his gaze. "Can I have my book back?"

He shut it simply and offered it back, flexing his gloved hands while his eyes burned. I took it back quickly and hugged it to my chest, pulling up my knees, the conversation gone again. I clutched the pencil in my hand, mortified. _Acacia Isla Selvig, you idiot. He thinks you're crazy now. _The black-haired boy resumed looking back out the window, silent and thoughtful as he pursed his lips.

My heart skipped a beat- he had resumed the look he wore on the bus, Monday morning, ignoring me, reserved in his own little world. I peered down at the images I had attempted of him, the sketches in vain, and the thought graced my mind. I turned back to the original page of Connecticut sketches, the first of Tom and Vlad and Sif, before Arren was in the mix, the first sketch of him in the corner. It looked rougher, looking back on it- not so refined and easily fixable since it had been forged in the dark. Drawing from the light in the bus windows, I took my pencil to it, and mended the stitching of the image. I checked back and forth from the image to him, sallowing the contours of his cheeks, the lines of his face and neck, the shapes of his trench coat pulled to conceal and divert. I took the care to make sense of his image, hoping to capture the moments and the hidden piece of the puzzle I felt I had always been missing from my drawings.

After a small while, he caught me. His turned back as the drizzle became fog on the window, obstructing his vision and snapping his attention back to me. His green eyes were quizzical, his expression interrogating my actions curiously when he noticed my hand paused on the image of his face.

"Sorry..." I murmured, my lungs squeezing as the devastation of the situation ran me over. The blush returned and I snapped the sketchbook shut, pushing the pencil into my pocket and forcing the cursed book into my backpack, squeezing it between my knees. Stiff, I sat on the edge of my seat, eager to go even though the stop the bus had halted upon wasn't mine. My heart pounded in my ears, terrified that he hated me now- _thought I was weird, a creep, a delusional girl with balance and social problems, a freak, a nerd, an introvert, someone to be isolated in an asylum rather than be forced headfirst into high school. _I reached up to hide my face in my hand, shaping my fingers around my temple and looking away.

A gloved hand slowly appeared in my vision, reaching down to pull out the sketchbook from the open backpack between my knees, careful and considerate as my hand dropped and I watched him open it once more. He turned through the pages until he found the one I had been working on when I he had seen me. He ran his fingers over his face briefly, glancing up and offering an encouraging smile. He then looked back down, turning through the pages to see the full extent of my guilt, all the images, occasionally interrupted with one that wasn't him, but everything essentially was, the thought dawning on me in horror that the only thing I really had been watching for the entire week _was_ him.

His long fingers stopped on an image I had seen of him during Photography, typing on a keyboard, alone from Henry and his posse. "I didn't realized I frowned like that when I typed," he smirked kindly.

I stared back at him, ashamed, trying to believe that he was attempting to help, but it wasn't enough. My instinct was to take my book back, and I did, slipping it from his hands and closing it, cradling it to my bust as I mumbled, "Sorry... I'm so sorry..."

The bus stopped and I glanced outside, my heart leaping to my throat when I saw Andrew waiting for me, his attention buried in his iPhone. But it was enough- I had to get out of here. Followed by a stunned black-haired boy and Arren, I stood up in a flash and shoved my sketchbook into my backpack, not half paying attention as I darted down the steps and zipping up my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. Tom's heavy footsteps sounded from amongst Arren's confident and the black-haired boy's light, and I barreled into Andrew again, hugging him and burying my face in his jacket, a refuge I had sorely missed. I pulled my face back, smiling and waving at Tom and his cousins as they began walking down the street, a hesitant black-haired boy trailing after them from a few steps behind while Arren began in the direction of our home.

Andrew, rigid, his hands avoiding touching me while he frowned. "Jeez, Acorn, what are they doing to you in that hellhole?" he snapped, pushing me out of my tight embrace.

I staggered back, but grabbed a hand of his and pulled him down in the direction of our house, tugging him along as I begged, "Let's go home. I need the weekend."

* * *

><p>THOR<p>

Thor strode along down the street proudly, glancing every so often over his shoulder to watch Isla careen down the sidewalk with her brother in tow. Thor smiled widely, looking forward to their weekend visit when he assured himself with a glance at his younger brother, the calculating youth with emerald eyes holding something gently to the side, away from Thor.

This immediately got his attention, and Thor laughed, eager to find out what his brother was apparently hiding. Sif walked ahead with her three warriors as Thor quickly ducked around Loki, but the God of Mischief was faster, his hands darting to the other side before Thor could lunge for the book.

Thor laughed. "What is so worth hiding from me, brother?" he chortled, swiping for it again though Loki kept it thoroughly out of reach.

"A book of pictures," Loki answered calmly, his eyes emotionless while Thor clambered about him. "It doesn't belong to either of us."

"Then why keep it from me, brother?" Thor challenged, grinning stupidly, relishing the game as he snatched for it again.

Loki kept it from his brother's brutal hands, holding it considerately while he brought it back into view. "Because you can hardly take care of yourself, much less something that doesn't belong to you," Loki explained with sigh. "I'm planning to return it to the owner. It fell out of her backpack while she was getting off the bus- she hadn't put it in properly."

Thor stopped his attempt, leaning down to squint at the name etched on top, scrawled in messy handwriting. "Lina Sell- sellan- vega- what?..."

Loki shrugged, drawing open his satchel to slip the book inside, the pages thick and rough hewn at the edges, fingers pausing over the thick fabric cover. His eyes flashed when the flap fell closed, sealing the book inside. "It's a neighbor's, most likely. I'll email friends to find the owner."

"You always do the honorable thing," Thor commented, clicking his fingers before flexing them, admiring the bulging muscles along his arms. "I'd just hand it to someone else, or the trashcan." He chortled and picked up his pace to follow Sif and Finley, signaling Loki to follow.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've been short-changed for time, as of late. Please excuse the belated update.**


	10. Rivalry

**The Gap**

spockjasperlokizukowriting

* * *

><p><strong>Ten- Rivalry<strong>

"NO!" I screamed, pacing around my room, digging underneath everything I could topple, dumping out my backpack for the third time in the morning. "No, no, no, no, this _can't _be happening! This is a nightmare! I'M GOING TO _DIE!" _

Andrew stood in my doorway, leaning against the lintel with a bemused expression. "Wow, Acorn, don't start slitting your wrists immediately," he chuckled darkly. "It's just a stupid book."

"No, no, no, it's MORE than that!" I cried, sobbing as tears started to stream down my cheeks, trembling as I worked myself into a state. "It's- it's all my work! Everything! My LIFE! It's all in there and I _can't_ lose it!" I clenched handfuls of my sleeping shirt, clutching myself and sobbing like there was no tomorrow.

"What's the ruckus about?" my father asked, peering into my room around around the corner, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other, still in his bathrobes. His blue eyes softened when he saw the state I was in, the belongings strewn everywhere on my floor while I stood shaking and bawling in the middle.

"Acorn lost her sketchbook," Andrew explained, blue eyes flickering while my father nodded, brow knitting.

"Ah."

"Ah?" I wailed, my hands dropping while I gave him a disbelieving, accusing look. "_Ah? _My life is over and all you can say is AH?"

"Acorn, your life isn't over," Father reprimanded with a raised eyebrow.

"How could you say that, you soulless people?" I cried, tears falling onto my shirt as I hugged my stomach. "It's like you losing your work, dad, or getting your book accidentally erased, Andrew! I've lost my work and my effort! It's ALL OVER if I can't find it!"

I sank to my knees, blubbering to myself, unable to keep control as I buried my face behind my quivering hands, devastated. How could I have _lost_ my sketchbook? I remembered putting it straight into my bag, no questions asked! We had gone out to see a movie last night, but I hadn't moved my backpack from my room since I had arrived home, only to wake up in the morning, itching with a craving to draw, to find it missing as if it had never been there in the first place.

I felt my heart drop as reassuring hands kneaded my shoulders. "Oh darling, you'll be okay," my mother whispered, kneeling down by my side to give me a hug, squeezing me and rubbing my back. I opened my burning, wet eyes, my father standing there impassively while my brother sealed in laughter behind a large hand, eyes twinkling. "We'll buy you a new one, and you can start over!"

"It's not like they were any good anyway," Andrew quipped, prompting a glare from my father as I sobbed harder. Andrew lifted up his hands. "What?"

"You're not helping," my mother chided with a scowl, tugging me closer.

I tried to calm down, hiccuping as my mother pulled me to my feet. "There, there," she consoled. "You're a fabulous artist and you'll do great, no matter where your sketchbook is. It's only practice. If we don't find it within the next couple of days, then I'll buy you a really fancy one! With colored pencils! Or...or maybe we could get you a gigantic canvas set so that you can work on painting? For Art? Ms. Keaton will understand, and surely your partner, Ethan, shall too!"

I knitted my brow and staggered from my room, stumbling into the bathroom to wash my face. _Nothing bought could ever replace my sketchbook. It was what I did to calm down. It was what I did during my calm. It was a personal friend, a relic of my past. How else could I make sense of my emotions, of my memories, my life? _

Andrew snickered as he passed the bathroom, walking downstairs and declaring that he was going to eat breakfast. My mother tapped after him, her light, silken bathrobe draping after her while my father rubbed his eye, yawning as he resigned to stand in the doorway. "Come down to breakfast, sweetheart," he insisted, his voice kind as I looked up, staring at my red, blotchy face in the mirror. "You'll have to piece up your attitude somehow before we go over to eat with the Asgards."

I blinked, realizing how horrible I looked, angry raw skin fuming in the cool water as I remembered the evening's engagement. "Right. Crap. Tom."

"I'm sure they'll understand, and if you left it on the bus, maybe they've seen it," he pointed out, sipping his steaming coffee, the blue ceramic matching the color of his eyes. "Besides, if you ever feel down, just keep yourself moving. Distract yourself. Work with computer paper for now, or produce an actual project you can showcase or sell for once. This needs to become something you shouldn't be so attached to."

I nodded, wiping my eyes furiously. "I know, I _know!_ It's just... It can't be replaced. If it's gone, it's gone forever." The thought of never seeing those drawings again terrified me, and I fought to hold back more tears, my lip quivering and eyes shining once more.

"Well, you look dreadful," he commented, sighing and heading towards the stairs. "Clean up before you come down, alright?"

"Fine!" I snapped back, washing my face until the redness and ache wasn't from the crying. My throat tight and lashes wet, I slathered my face with a towel and trudged down the stairs, my sweatpants and overgrown shirt waving like parachutes on my thin frame, the fabric that went past my ankles almost tripping me as I plodded towards the dining room. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror- hair wild, shoulders slouched, gray circles inked underneath my violent blue eyes, bloodshot and pink from my tantrum. Andrew was outside on the porch, his lips moving as he spoke on the phone, free hand waving about, like he was having a debate of some sorts.

My mother was foraging about the kitchen, lathering a plate high and wide with eggs, bacon, and pancakes, topping it off with syrup and whipped cream, sprinkling on a few diced strawberries before presenting it to me. I took it in hand and sat at the table, curving my shoulders inwards. My father sat next to me, buried in a newspaper while his coffee sat half empty by his side. I picked through my food, chewing slowly, the eggs tasteless in my mouth while my father peered over the edge of paper. "Better?" he asked.

I forced a nod, feeling numb, my fingers trembling though I wasn't about to cry, nor was I particularly hungry. "Yeah, I'm okay," I managed.

"Isla," he continued.

"Yes?"

He smirked. "You aren't going to die," he assured.

I held my cheek in my spare hand and sighed, wishing that I didn't have to eat if it wasn't part of the act. "You're so helpful, you know," I mumbled.

The doorbell rung, trilling throughout the house in a two note sequence. My mother dusted her hands on her bathrobe and reached up to straighten her hair briefly, pursing her lips. "I wonder who that could be..." she pondered aloud, striding towards the front door. I wrinkled my nose, slicing through the double layer of pancakes with the side of my fork.

My father folded up his newspaper and cupped both hands around his coffee, cradling it between his hands like a piece of delicate gold. "You don't have to eat if you don't want to," he chuckled, eyeing the bacon. "The only one you'll be offending is the food."

I shook my head, stubborn and resolute. "No. I shall eat. I'll keep moving, like you said, remember?... It's just a stupid sketchbook." My stomach clenched, because I knew that wasn't true. I put down my fork and rubbed my temple, my chest feeling hollow, thoroughly in denial. But I knew it was hopeless. If I had left it on the bus, maybe, but if it had fallen out on the street? Perhaps on my way home? It would be ruined by water or picked up by a stranger and tossed to the trashcan. The more I thought about how hopeless the situation was, the more I felt like bursting into tears once more.

"Isla?" my mother called from down the hallway. "Isla, a friend from school's here to see you! You ride the bus with him?"

My throat felt clogged and the fork dropped from my fingers. The name _Arren_ automatically came to mind, Henry's words echoing in my ears, about how Arren had wanted to make me his girlfriend. His name was all I could think of when I shakily stood, calling back, "Coming!" I tried to comb through my hair with my fingers, dreading meeting again with a boy Tom had coined thoroughly the schoolyard bully, my gut clenching in anxiety. I could make out a tall figure from behind the door, one that matched his almost exactly, as my mother stood with the door parted, a smile on her face.

"He's very handsome," she grinned down at me. "All these suitors!"

"Yeah, suitors," I grumbled back, painting a forced smile on my face as I took the handle from her and swung the door open. My smile fell in shock and my heart skipped a beat, my gaze setting on not Arren, someone completely different- the black-haired boy. He stood, long with mahogany hair gleaming in the gray morning light, leather shoes wet from the snow, his hands buried in his pockets and eyes wide, almost...hopeful. He straightened minutely after I had opened the door, green eyes shining as he swallowed, shifting his shoulders as the strap to his brown satchel cut in the crook of his neck.

I bit my lip, my mother watching from behind with twinkling eyes, my silence rude as I struggled to think of something to say when he obviously wasn't. "I, well... This is unexpected," I stammered, my smile collapsing once more.

He quickly looked away and to the ground, hunching his shoulders. "Yes, well, I, um..." He was at a loss for words, his gaze averting from mine.

I felt my mother's presence disappear from behind me, and I sighed, relaxing with the relief of her pressure. I opened the door a little further and stood to the side, my breath hitching. "Would-"

"I-"

We both quickly fell silent, myself blushing that we had interrupted each other. He shifted where he stood and creased his brow, nervous. "You go first," he gave anxiously.

"Oh, I... Would...would you like to come in?..." I leaned against the door, my hands behind my back and my brow continually raised.

"Oh, no, that... it's fine," he sprang, stumbling over his words quickly before he heaved a breath. "You... I... Isla, I mean." His strained grin faltered. "I have some things of yours...that... That I've come to give back..."

My brow rose in surprise. "Oh."

He slowly reached down to his satchel, my attention following his hands while his gaze remained planted on me. He pushed aside the covering flap and drew out the first thing, red, knitted fabric loose and wavering in his hands, catching on the passing wind as he reached out to me. "You left this behind," he murmured, and I reacted, stretching out a hand to take my red scarf from him, wincing as our bare fingers brushed.

His hands retreated and I folded the cotton and polyester between my fingers, offering a smile. "Thank you," I beamed, taken back by the strange but warm kindness.

He squirmed, leaning forward a bit as he watched my hands. "I, um, that's not everything," he corrected, reaching back to draw out a final product from his satchel. The black fabric glowed in the sunlight, dull as his hands clutched it nervously. "I... I thought you would want this back."

My face lit up, my smile and joy to large to contain as I burst, jumping up in excitement and trembling with happiness. "My sketchbook!" I exclaimed, stepping forward to take it from his hands, the agony of the morning forgotten in light of its return. The pages were untouched as I ran my hands over the canvas, raising an eyebrow as I quickly grew suspicious. "Wait... I knew you had my scarf, but my sketchbook?..."

He went rigid, rocking on his heels anxiously as he stared at the ground. "You dropped it on the bus yesterday," he explained sheepishly, glancing up to look at me sadly. "I thought... I thought you would be missing it."

I smiled at him, forgiving, elated that he had bothered to give these back to me and grateful that events had turned in my favor for once in the week. "I...wow, thank you. I don't know what else to say but thank you."

He nodded, heaving a breath as he leveled our gazes. "You're welcome," he murmured, pursing his lips and looking away.

I knitted my brow. "How did you find me?" I asked curiously, blinking.

He shrugged. "Arren said that he lived next door to you," he said simply, biting his lip.

"Turns out that much is true."

I giggled nervously. "He wouldn't have cause to lie, would he?"

I regretted my words instantly as his sparkling eyes darkened, his emotionless expression hardening. His fingers unconsciously balled by his side, and I cleared my throat, suddenly wishing to go inside and hide again.

"Well, thanks again!" I said weakly. "You made my day."

He nodded, eyes still dark while his expression relaxed. "Oh, okay, well, I...erm, good." He glanced away, back up the street.

"See you at school?" I continued, slightly hopeful.

He nodded again, avoiding my gaze, fascinated with the ground, his lips tight. "Sure," he dismissed and then turned to leave, shoving his hands into his pocket and lowering his shoulders, green scarf waving behind his back as he strode lithely away, a dancer's cadence and he left our yard and began back up the hill.

I watched after him, hugging my scarf and book to my chest, wondering what that was about until I felt my mother standing beside me once more, my feel and fingers numb from the cold, my heart pounding in my ears.

I pulled my gaze away to meet my mother's intense, amused grin. "What?" I asked innocently.

"You never told me you had two complete hotties on your bus!" she piped. "Tom, and now this black-haired boy! You've hit the jackpot."

I blushed and walked inside, slamming the door behind me as she laughed. "Mom, you're ridiculous!" I snapped, but couldn't fight the smile in my face.

"What? Don't tell me that he isn't handsome!" she protested, sprinting to my side. "And did you see the way he stared at you, blushing the entire time? He's seems like a nice boy- I wouldn't mind it if you dated this boy, or Tom, for that matter."

"Mom, really?" I groaned, slumping at the table while she sat across from me. "You can't be serious. He could hardly look at me and his cheeks were paler than tile. Stop making things up."

"Oh, but it's true!" she giggled, every ounce the teenager she was not while my father just rolled his eyes. "And he gave you your sketchbook back, how nice!"

The back door slammed and Andrew trudged towards the kitchen, dejected, his eyes shining as he threw an accusing, stifled glare at us, particularly at my father. "You happy now, dad?" he snapped, on the verge of angry tears. "Because now you've done it! My life is officially _over! _She's broken up with me!"

"Who has?" my father returned, not bothering to turn to look at his fuming son.

Andrew staggered, hurt, rolled fists trembling. "Georgie, STUPID! My _girlfriend_ broke up with me! She left me, dad! For Clyde! My Georgie, because I moved away and she could barely last the week! Clyde was there to comfort her and...damnit, this is all your FAULT! I HATE CONNECTICUT! I'm going to go hide in a hole and self combust you stupid, arrogant, selfish JERK!"

"Andren Pietari!" my mother snapped, glowering as she bristled, while my father simply shrugged.

"You'll get over it, son," he assured, returning to his newspaper.

Andrew went bright red, his lips tightening as he trembled. "That's exactly what you said to Isla and look at what a mess she is!" he screamed.

I smiled at my brother and held up my sketchbook, blinking my remarkably clear eyes. "The black-haired boy from the bus-stop gave it back," I explained. "I couldn't be more happy."

Andrew appeared exasperated, inclined forward, hands relaxing while he panted heavily. His mouth was agape as he breathed, "...wha...?"

"It's true," I said, wrinkling my nose when I added, "I don't know what you're so distressed about, Andrew. She's just a girl."

He narrowed his eyes, snarling, "Ha. Ha. Very funny."

"My relationship with my textbook has lasted longer than yours did with Georgie," I furthered, holding my chin a little higher. He wiped his eyes furiously, and my heart squeezed. I couldn't stay mad at my brother for long, no matter how much he deserved it. "But Andrew, it'll be okay! There are always more fish in the sea."

"Well, BP took care of that," my father chuckled underneath his breath.

Andrew threw his hands in the air and groaned. "Ugh! I hate my LIFE!" he shouted, storming off and up the stairs with heavy footsteps, topping it off as he slammed his door.

My mother flinched, clutching her cup of steaming tea as she blinked. "Well... This has been eventful."

My father sighed and glanced at his watch. "And it's not even 10 yet."

* * *

><p>The doorbell rang later that day, while I sat barefoot on the floor of my room. I had tidied up my room from earlier, my curly hair pulled back into a clip. I inclined pliably over the image of the black-haired boy at my doorstep while etching his face onto the paper. There hadn't been any damage to the pages, no stray watermarks while I turned through the scenes. The signature notes of the doorbell cut through my reverie, and I pulled back when my mother called from down the stairs.<p>

"Coming!" I answered in a hurry, dropping my pencil while I sprinted from my room's door. Andrew's own door was shut and had remained closed for the extent of the morning, while I had changed and spruced myself up, a loose, old shirt on with baggy black sweatpants rolled up at my calves. I bounded down the stairs, skidding to a halt as my smile wavered.

"Oh, hi, Arren," I greeted, tucking a stray curl behind my ear shyly while my neighbor stood outside, flanked by two of his friends, one with messy messy, walnut spikes and the other with a frock of wavy black hair, one pale and the other tanned from hours in the sun. All three were pretty boys, Arren in particular, pink from exercise as they smiled warmly at me.

"Hey," he greeted with a warm smile, no hint of hostility or guarded emotion. The cut along his cheek had faded in bruising and redness, reduced to a thin scratch that almost made him look even more handsome. "This is Evan Hendricks-" he gestured to the boy on his right, with dark brown eyes, tan skin, and spiky hair- "and Ben Laufeyson."

He motioned to the last boy, pale and unnaturally, with sable hair and fierce, cold gray eyes. He was bigger than both Arren and Evan, with a slight hunch, both hands buried in his pocket as he flashed glistening white teeth in a dark smile.

Goosebumps pricked along my arms and I shivered, smiling and nodding politely. I remembered their faces from the hallways during passing period, even thinking that I shared a class with each one- Physics with Evan, Trig and Economy with Ben. Both nodded, Evan muttering a tepid, "hi," beneath his breath. Ben remained largely silent, but his gaze never left.

I grinned, but swallowed, something eating at me inside while my nose went pink from the cold. "What's the occasion?"

Arren smiled snidely and huffed. "Just a small impulse for a walk. I thought I'd take my own turn of showing you about the neighborhood," he explained, eyes flashing. "There's a small park area down the hill, and it's perfect weather for a snow man."

I nodded. "Sure. One second- let me get ready." I let them inside and quickly shut the door, bolting back up the stairs to pull on proper pants and a shirt, folding my hair into a pony tail as I slipped into a beanie. Dressed in warmer clothing, I pulled on my snowboots and gloves, fitting my returned red scarf around my neck before appearing back at the base of stairs in the nick of time, cell phone slipped into my front pocket. Ben and Evan appeared impassive as Arren smiled, my mother clearly ending a small conversation with him as they all stood expectantly.

I smiled and spread my palms. "So? Do I look ready to go on a walk?" I grinned.

Arren met my smile with one of his own. "You look priceless."

I blushed at the compliment, following him as Evan opened the door for us. Venturing out into the cold, I still felt slightly unprepared, shivering in the contact as we crunched through the snow. Arren assured me with a presence at my side, Ben and Evan walking ahead of us and down the hill, opposite the direction the black-haired boy had left. I fingered the cell phone in my pocket, prepared to use it if need be, but allowed myself to trust as Arren began speaking.

"Enjoying your weekend?" he started, auburn hair curled to his pale cheeks and along his chiseled jaw-line.

"Thoroughly," I exaggerated, but he didn't catch my tone. "What about you? What have been your weekend adventures?"

He laughed, hazel eyes sparkling. "Nothing out of the ordinary. My father left to go to some project they're working on in Canada, and my mom is at home sick with the flu."

"Oh, dear," I quipped, sstartled, eyes widening in concern. "Shouldn't you be at home with her?"

He shook his head with a grin. "Nah. She'll be fine. I think she kind of wanted me out of the house, actually. It's not a good thing for her to look out for her son while she's nursing a sore throat."

I nodded. "Ah, okay. Well, I guess that makes sense..."

"What has made you 'thoroughly' enjoy today?" he then remarked, attempting at renewing the conversation's interest in me.

"My brother has been trying to resolve a broken heart all morning. His girlfriend back in New Mexico dumped him," I explained. "I'm kind of sad for him, but he deserved it."

"How did he deserve it?"

"He was bullying me this morning over the loss of my sketchbook," I continued, shivering in the biting air. "But, at least my woe turned out for good. A boy from the bus gave it back to me this morning. He was...kind, about it." I tried not to make my voice sound distant as Arren cleared his throat.

"Does this 'boy from the bus' have a name?" he pressed, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"I...well..." I blushed in embarrassment- he had never had a name in the week I had known him. Always the 'black-haired boy' or the 'boy from the bus.' He felt better nameless- the mystery, the distance.

"I can pretty much figure out who it was, you don't have to tell me," Arren then replied, a little cold in his tone.

"You can?" I asked, unsure.

"Yes, I can. I'm not as stupid as I apparently look, Isla. And I can take a lot more than you realize," he defended, self consciously shying from me.

I frowned in confusion. "Wait, what?"

"You don't have to hide that it was Tom, you know," he continued, his words bitter, like venom as he said the Asgardian's name. "I'm not going to blow up in anger at the gesture."

I flinched, confused and slightly hurt. "Wait, what? No, it wasn't Tom!"

"Don't defend him, Isla," Arren reprimanded, raising both eyebrows and callously shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's not becoming."

The silence then sank in, and no words were spoken until we rounded a corner and reached a small park area. The oak trees stood resolutely, silently, sagging underneath the weight of the melting snow. The air was maleficent in its nature, tendrils of icy numbness scraping down my back. I shuddered and sat down on a small boulder, houses placed on either side of the garden. Arren quickly distanced himself from me and occupied his mind otherwise, teaming up with Evan to push together bushels of left over snow. His gloved hands worked with practiced movements, and the snowman began to take shape.

Like I, Ben had decided to stay behind. Giving me a wary glance, he strode to my side, elegant and tall, blue eyes turbulent while his black hair swung over his forehead in a bent curve.

"May I sit?" he asked cautiously. I only swallowed and nodded, scooting over to allow the massive teen the room I could provide.

He sat down, unmoved by the dropping temperature, and glanced down at me. I tried to avoid eye contact, upset that I had offended the quizzical Arren.

Ben followed my gaze and then smiled, huffing lightly. "Arren will get over it, Isla," he reassured.

"Over what?" I asked, straightening and knitting my brow.

"I have better hearing than you may credit," he grinned. "Besides, one can read Arren like a book. You said something about Tom, didn't you?"

I swallowed and clenched my jaw, the cold insatiable as it teethed on my sensitive skin. "Well, not exactly. A boy from the bus dropped off my sketchbook this morning. I legitimately don't know his name, and the silence on the topic mislead Arren to believing I was trying to protect Tom... But, I wasn't! I promise!"

Ben chuckled darkly and upturned his palms in surrender. "I believe you."

I pursed my lips in frustration and held my cheek, leaning both elbows forward on my knees. "Why do Tom and Arren hate each other, anyway?"

Ben gave me an understanding look as I pleaded for an answer, eyes dark and thoughtful as he replied hesitantly, "Isla... Some hatreds are not so easily explained. Not even I, Arren's closest friend, know the full extent of it."

"Well, what do you know of it?" I pried, straightening to pay closer attention to the story, curiosity pricked.

Ben's smile was absent, eyes hard and sour. "You know what Arren's father does for a living, correct?"

I shook my head.

Ben was undeterred and patient. "His father works for a governmental agency known as SHIELD."

"SHIELD?"

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistic Division," he explained with a small smile. "They're largely responsible for foreign affairs and military experiments of the like. His father is high in the ranking, but his primary job is to deal with the affairs that Tom's father, Owen Asgard, also deals with. As a military general, they tend to...clash, a lot."

I nodded to convey my comprehension, lips pursed and brow furrowed in thought. Arren and Evan were oblivious, lost in the snow as Ben adjusted to face me properly.

"Now, you have to understand that some of their work can be dangerous, and frequently involve risking their own lives and each other's," he warned. "This has always unsettled both children, but on one mission, Tom's father was particularly put in danger, and Arren's father was involved in a decision that nearly took Owen's life. The danger dissipated quickly, but the fear for his father's life didn't, and Tom soon began to associate Arren with the fear of never seeing his father again. The damper was only steadily fueled when Arren's own father was placed in a hazardous situation, with the blame primarily of Tom's father. The animosity grew, each other's fathers risking their lives for a greater good, but the stress became too much. Tom decided to confront Arren.

"It was during lunch, as I remember, back in the second grade. Tom had tried to reason with Arren, to ask for a distance between them and to try and create an understanding. Arren didn't see the point in this, and instead decided to bully Tom, afraid of him, worried that Tom's lineage may the reason Arren came close every week to becoming a half orphan. Tom fought back, and three days later, attacked Arren. He punched and kicked, and Arren fought back. They were taken away and Tom switched schools. They never talked for five years after that.

"Since then, it became time for middle school to begin. Unwittingly, both were placed in the same academic program. Arren decided to give Tom another chance, but the favor was only returned with silence. Tom and his cousins avoided Arren and his friends all together, until one decided to stop and listen. Sofie, or as you may know her by her nickname, Sif, shared a class with Arren and steadily grew to like him. Arren returned those affection, and took her as his girlfriend. Tom found out quickly and was enraged, but learned to tolerate it because it made his cousin happy."

"Sif?" I repeated in wonder, thinking of the reserved, snarky girl I had become fond of. "Dating Arren? Impossible!"

"Dated," Ben corrected, nose wrinkling. "The relationship lasted for two years, and Tom had learned to trust Arren to the point where all was practically forgiven between their father's line of work and their earlier fight. Until a new student came."

"Who?" I begged, rapt by the story.

Ben smiled sadistically. "Do you know who Maria Hill is?"

I frowned and shook my head, but the name sounded familiar. It then hit me- Henry had mentioned to the black-haired boy during Photography that Arren had gotten over his most recent heartbreak, Maria Hill.

"She moved into the neighborhood and shared nearly all her classes with Arren," he continued, a haze in his eyes. "He was automatically smitten with her, unable to help his feelings. He felt it was wrong to continue a relationship with Sif, so he dumped her, getting the point across thoroughly, but broke her heart in the process. Tom was maddened to an insane point at his beloved cousin's disappointment, and fought Arren once and for all. Tom was winning, quite easily, as it has been rumored, but the fight was held in private, so no details are as exact in this point of the story. The way Arren explained it to me, he stopped and talked with Tom, winning him over, somehow, with a promise to leave him alone. Since then, Arren has risen in popularity, and the two hardly speak."

I frowned, heaving breaths, horrified at the dismaying, grim retelling of their past. "But... Maria Hill..."

"Ah," Ben remarked with a cruel smile. "She dumped him a few weeks ago, a little before you arrived, actually."

"Word has it that Arren likes me now," I mumbled dejectedly.

"And you don't return those feelings?" he asked in surprise, interest intense despite his suave voice.

"Well, I... No, not at all. I mean, I don't mind Arren. He's nice enough," I stumbled over my words feebly.

"...Then you like Tom?" Ben assumed slowly, eyes expectant.

"No, not that either. Tom's just a friend," I reassured. "I don't like anyone in that way! I'm not ready for a relationship."

"In some ways, that's a relief to hear," Ben confessed, turning his gaze to a distracted Arren. "I don't think Arren needs another girlfriend so soon after Maria."

"Arren doesn't really like me, does he?" I begged, my forehead wrinkling out of desperation. My voice couldn't help but crack and sound a few notes higher.

Ben pursed his lips in consideration, not looking at me. "I wouldn't count on it," he finally shrugged through the silence. "Arren never tells me these things, but you shouldn't worry."

"But Arren doesn't dislike me for hanging out with Tom, does he?"

"I'm sure he resents it, but it's your life," he granted.

"Thanks," I breathed, sighing and looking away. "You seem to be the only one who understands that."

Ben shifted. "Not entirely... Listen, Isla, just be aware of the Asgards. Be aware of the history, beware of Tom." His voice was slick, almost like a sneer as he turned to face me with a malevolent grin. "Someone could get hurt."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'll be impressed by the person who can name Ben Laufeyson's Norse equivalent. I'll try and update around every two or three days. At least that's what it's coming out to be. **


	11. Dead of Night

**the Gap **

spockjasperlokizukowriting

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><p><strong>Eleven- Dead of Night<strong>

Ben's words kept with me throughout the rest of the afternoon. Arren had pretended like nothing ever happened, but his eyes still felt cold when he walked me home, snowman complete. My mother had bought me a new outfit for the occasion, something glamorous for the encroaching dinner- an amaranthine dress with a turquoise shawl and a silver bracelet. I sat down on the edge of my bed and sighed, taking out my sketchbook and attempting to draw the occurrences of the day. Andrew was still wallowing, furiously washing his face in the bathroom and blushing when I mentioned Sif from around the corner.

My heart plummeted. Poor Sif. I felt more of a connection to her than I ever had. I now understood Tom's anger, and Arren's. It felt like nothing was heading in the right direction for either of them. I recorded Ben's disparaging gaze and bit my lip, looking down at his angular, icy face.

But I couldn't shake the feeling I was still missing something. Like the pictures of the black-haired boy, it never felt complete.

Night fell outside my window, and before I knew it, it was time for dinner.

* * *

><p><em>The dead of night offered little serenity. A cold swept down through the Messenger, a foretelling of winter. His hollow, staccato footsteps echoed down the street, dimly lit houses falling into their deep slumber. The sky was clear; the stars played tonight, a crescent moon waning, pools of moonlight spilling down in fluid shapes. The Messenger's feet sank into the snow as he paused, stopping amongst the shapes of the trees. The warm windows of the house he had paused by glowed in a soft golden light, dampened by drapes and curtains. He could almost feel the heat of the entities inside the house- touch the energy dancing from the walls- feel the passage of their immortal time.<em>

_ It was their presence that had drawn him here on this night. _

_ He crouched down, slipping behind the leaves of a frozen bush as he pressed his hearing. The words became clearer as the night fell into quiet. _

_ "...Mother, really? You expect me to cook? After the disaster of the lasagna?" _

_ "Be as hot-headed as you are, but at least take out the trash!" _

_ "Fine then." _

_ The door opened and a tall, resolute figure stood against the light, blackened in comparison. With confident steps he strode forward, the figure of the eldest Odinson bracing in the night. He flipped open the lid to a square container and tossed a mahogany bag inside, bulging with contents. He let the lid fall closed and he turned around, golden hair gleaming, breathing in the bitter air of the night. _

_ The Aesir was so close the Messenger could almost reach out and touch him- one touch of his deadly skin, that was all it took, and the Aesir would fall limp, cold, lifeless. A poison flesh that kept the Messenger secluded, reading the aura, tingling with the power the young God radiated like heat. _

_ The Messenger closed his eyes and concentrated, crouching, his hands pressed to his temples while his hood slipped lower, forehead enveloped in a curtain of black. Yes, yes, the power, the change of heart- the love was taking hold. This Aesir was part of a prophecy, he could tell. But whether it was this prophecy? The time was too early- it hadn't progressed thus far. He could sense it, like a small inkling, a discharge, a change in the make up of his power, morphing, growing. The thought of love made the Messenger's stomach pit in disgust. _

_ The door slammed, and the Messenger was alone once more, a figure, shrunken like a withered plant, spindly, long fingers curling into fists. _

_ "He has to be the one," he growled beneath his breath. "It can't be anyone else. The prophecy, the signs, the growing intimation of love- it's him. It must be." _

_ "A heart can be conquered, but I do not believe that it is his," a slick voice cut in, a tall, dark presence emerging from between the lines of trees. _

_ The Messenger flinched and glanced behind him, lowering his fists, breath pluming before his pale lips. "Byleist," he snarled. _

_ The young Frost Giant smiled coyly, mortal form changed to dye with blue skin, ridges along his forehead and high cheekbones serrated like ice, though small and nimble for what he body could withstand. "I sensed your presence, and was curious," he remarked mischievously, suave as he knelt down at the Messenger's side, black hair blending with the night while his red eyes shone. "The All King surely told you of my residence here. I have kept eyes on the young Aesir since before they can remember."_

_ "Performing your duty as well as you must, I am sure...but this is no longer within your hands," the Messenger replied coldly, turning back to face the house. "The change has begun and the prophecy is becoming true." _

_ Byleist glanced at the stars. "You've come to sense the change?"_

_ "Sense it? _Feel _it! It's so potent, how could I not recognize the difference in his powers?" the Messenger snapped. "The Aesir is falling in love, but gradually, leniently- the process is...slow..." _

_ "As much as I'm sure you're performing your duty, you don't even know who the girl is," Byleist grinned. _

_ "And you do?" _

_ "You're not as clever as you seem, old spirit," the young prince laughed, straightening to a stand. "My favors to Father are numerous, but none so incompetent as yours. Fail in the manner you wish- but stay out here any longer, and you'll see who the girl is." _

_ The Messenger glared at the son of Laufey, watching as his figure faded into the dark and snow, frost splintering through the air one moment before dissipating the next. _

_ The Messenger turned back, cursing under his breath, until his ears pricked, disturbed at the roar of a mortal vehicle coming around the bend, yellow lights flashing. He could barely make out a man and his family through the dark windows, dressed for an occasion, more formally than usual, and as they pulled into the driveway, a young girl with gleaming chestnut hair and dark blue eyes came into view. _

_ Though mortal, he could feel the change setting a new balance inside her- negligible, though, imperfect as of yet. But it was there, and the Messenger automatically knew as he watched her exit the car and follow her family to the door. _

_ But did the change match the God of Thunder's? The new life stirring within them both, did they belong together? Matched in power and in life force? A heart beat strongly from within the house, but suddenly, the Messenger was not so sure..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've recently suffered a wrist fracture and have been rather impaired in my ability to write. I promise that the next chapter shall be much longer (about 20 pages longer). However, if you're bored, check out the link to all this amazing art for the Gap (most of the awesome belonging to Loki's Little Helper). My drawing ability (though still impaired) hasn't been as largely affected. Thank you, and have a nice day! **


	12. To Truly Meet

**the Gap **

spockjasperlokizukowriting

* * *

><p><strong>Twelve- To Truly Meet<strong>

Andrew fidgeted in the seat next to me, impatient as our father revved the car to life, headlights projected against the gray of our garage. My mother displayed a similar impatience, having cooked up some parts of a meal and loaded it all into the boot, pruning her family and reprimanding each of us on our etiquette. I only smiled and nodded as she began chattering in the front seat, hardly hearing her amongst my distracted thoughts. Seeing Tom again was beginning to make me feel uneasy, Ben's words still startling clear in my mind.

"-And if I see elbows on the table from any of you, I swear I'll-"

"Miranda, I think they know how to sit through a decent meal," my father laughed, turning off the driveway and leaning into a curve up the hill. "It's not like they haven't been to a fancy dress party before."

"It's not a fancy dress party, it's a _dinner!"_ my mother snapped, pawing through her neatly curled blond hair. "Besides, I want to look good for Fiona and Owen! Such nice people..."

"You've already met them?" I asked curiously, watching the passing street lights out my window.

"Oh no, not Owen, just Fiona, Tom's mom. We bumped into each other in the supermarket the other day, and goodness! Her dress! Exquisite and expensive, but she's a darling," my mother prattled, and I didn't forget to catch how formal her language was starting to become. Mother took all parties of all natures so seriously it was ridiculous.

"Well, I'm sure that Andrew and Isla could stuff their faces and they wouldn't judge," my father calmly replied, almost bored, his hair combed and clothes adequate for the occasion- shirt, tie, thick jacket, and dress pants. Andrew had been decked in a similar outfit, with black dress pants, shoes, and a collared shirt. He hadn't relinquished his beanie, but promised that he'd take it off once we crossed their threshold. As per the moment, he hardly payed much attention to any of us, huddled in his corner, the blue light of his phone playing across his tan skin.

"Well, I would!" my mother answered, fluffing her hair for the hundredth time. "I don't want any of you to be rude. They're being very kind by having us over for dinner. And this Tom Asgard- what a nice boy. He's been most helpful to Isla during her first week of school."

"He won't so much touch her otherwise," my father grumbled, darkening at the mention of the golden-haired youth. I grinned inwardly, appreciating that when my mother's head was full of air, my father still had the sense to keep things in perspective.

"But Isla's looking forward to seeing him, and his cousins, right?" she persisted, glancing back to give me a pointed look.

"Yeah, of course!" I chirped, smiling to affirm my sincerity.

"And Andrew! Tom's cousin...what's-her-name? Sofie?" my mother continued, reaching over to nudge Andrew's knee. "I hear she's a local beauty."

Andrew paled, stiffening and hiding the phone to his chest. "Who, Sif?" he grouched angrily. "...well... I guess she's okay..."

"Okay? She's gorgeous!" I bubbled, snickering when Andrew shot me a gold glare.

"Come off it, Acorn!" he growled. "It's not like I'm going to leave one relationship to jump straight into another. Besides, what do you know of relationships? You haven't even had your first boyfriend yet!"

I feigned a grimace and held my chest. "Wow, Andrew, that really hurt," I giggled curtly, leaning back into my seat.

"Will you kids stop bickering and put on a smile?" my father finally interrupted, pulling down a street and up onto a new driveway, the house before us dimmed in the conflicting light. "We're here."

My mother yelped in surprise, quickly straightening her dress before she hobbled out of the car, moving towards the boot to fetch our contributions to the table. I tightened the shawl over my shoulders, feeling awkward in my dress as I slipped out into the frozen night, the cold air pinching the tips of my ears and cheeks. The moon was nothing more than a sliver amongst a clear, navy sky, silver light pebbling across the frost-lain ground. Surrounding the lone house were tall oaks, the bare branches shivering as a small breeze swept through, bushes lining the pavement leading back to the Asgard's home.

I did a double take. No, not home. _Mansion._ The place was too big to count as any regular house. At least three times as long as our own home, with a double garage and a grand door a little farther to the side, a small garden weaving between patches of lawn alongside a snaking pathway, ornaments peaking from between plants. Christmas lights were lit and lined the gutters and railings, the large windows gleaming with a yellow light from behind drawn curtains. The small woodlands surrounding the house divided it from the other settlements, the last and only in the cul-de-sac.

My breath was momentarily taken as I took in the full extent of the house's beauty, unable to comprehend that Tom, as kind and as nice as he was, could've been hiding this place in the suburban neighborhood. Another cold breeze swept across the snow and I shuddered, gelid fingers drifting down my spine as I turned and stared at the bushes, the leaves rustling in the gale. But there was nothing there- not even a hint, a whisper.

I felt a hand on my forearm, and I was quickly pulled back to reality by the surprising calm of my brother's voice. "Earth to Acorn," he smiled, and I nodded as I let him tow me up the driveway and to the door, pattering across the few stairs to a porch area. The porch-light glowed strongly with in an amber orb. The notched glass in the wooden door showed distantly of moving figures, and my father calmly reached forward to press the doorbell. A couple of high notes chimed from the other side, and the mosaic of glass flickered, footsteps sounding across a tiled floor.

The handle clicked as the door swung open, revealing a tall, elegant, picturesque woman, curled dirty-blond hair back in a wide bun, her closely fitting cream colored dress hanging to her knees, a pearl necklace laced across her thin collarbone. She was an aged beauty, with a classic wisdom to her blue eyes and kindly lined smile.

"Welcome!" she grinned, and I immediately recognized her smile as Tom's. "It's so great that you could make it!"

"Erik Selvig," my father nodded, leaning forward and extending a friendly hand. The woman took it gingerly, the rouge in her cheeks warming in the soft light.

"Fiona Asgard," she stated back.

"Fiona!" my mother giggled and the two embraced, Tom's mother almost dwarfing mine, even with heels. Height must've run in the family. Her sapphire eyes flickered to Andrew and I, resting on me in particular.

"And you must be Isla and Andrew!" she greeted, stepping from my mother's arms to reach out and shake hands. Andrew took her grasp first, painting a warm grin on his expression.

"Pleased to meet you Mrs. Asgard," he nodded, eyes all seriousness. Andrew was a gracious actor- it wasn't hard for him to hide emotions in a public setting.

Her eyes sparkled and she turned to me, taking my hand and gripping it firmly. She pursed her lips, then bit her bottom lip as she grinned again. "Tom didn't exaggerate how truly beautiful you are, Miss Isla," she crooned, giving my fingers a squeeze. "It truly is great to finally meet you."

I turned bright red, managing a meager, "Thanks."

Fiona took a few steps back and gestured for us to walk inside, painted lips beaming widely. "Please, come out of the cold!"

Andrew slipped off his hat and followed my parents inside, myself trailing behind them self consciously into the glorious front hallway. The air was soft, not crisp like the frigid temperature of outside, and the walls were a brilliant gold decked with paintings and sculptures, wooden furniture lining the expanse of space. A staircase twisted from one side of the house while more rooms stretched into the other, the ceiling high and arching with wooden beams for support, almost like a ribcage winding over our heads. I hung my shawl on a coat-rack just in time to hear a large voice boom, "ISLA!"

My cheeks felt hot. _Tom. _

A large pair of muscled arms circled my shoulders and lifted me into an overbearing hug, the jubilant senior grinning from ear to ear. "Great to see you!"

"Hey," I managed between gasps for breath, relieved when he finally set me down, still grinning madly as he presented himself- perhaps the nicest he'd ever dressed in the last week. A relaxed tux, without a bow tie, with dress pants and a finely tailored shirt. His hair looked somewhat combed, as radiant as the gold of his home.

He spread his palms. "Welcome home!" he introduced.

"It's lovely, yes," I acceded, curling a loose strand behind my ear as Finley, Vlad, and Hayden all pounced into view. Finley was downright stylish, hair combed and gelled to the side, chin and jaw neatly shaved to combat Tom's stubble. Vlad's hair was kept back with what looked like one of Sif's hairpins, while Hayden stood awkwardly, cheeks faintly warm, pathetic as he attempted what I thought was a smile. "Thanks for having me."

"Anytime, really," Finley embraced. "We've wanted you over all week!"

"At least they couldn't shut up about you all week," a mordant voice drawled, Sif rolling her eyes but smiling pleasantly as she weaved to Tom's side. Her gossamer hair rivered down her bare back, the dark navy dress she wore watering down by her knees. Her fierce blue eyes twinkled, shining like the silver earrings she wore while her scarlet lips pulled into a tighter smile. "Finally, you're here."

"It's great to be here," I supplied once more, frowning inwardly at the rehearsed answers. It felt weird to be in such a formal presence with the Asgards, belittled by their collective beauty and fumbling over my words.

Andrew stepped in by my side, suavely grinning as he nodded to the boys, his gaze lingering just a little too long on Sif. "Hey," he greeted.

"Andrew!" Tom burst, leaning forward to shake hands. "I hope you've come hungry, brother. It's a feast tonight!"

"I...well..." Andrew was taken completely off guard, glimpsing down at me with wide eyes. _Help. _

I twisted my lips in thought, Sif holding a hand over her mouth to keep in tinkling laughter, but it was Mrs. Asgard who saved the moment. She pushed by my side and tapped towards the stairs, a determined frown on her face as she muttered to herself, "Always late for greetings and never gets the message..."

She curled her long fingers around the edge of the railing and called up, "Hey! You two! Come down now, we have _guests!" _

"Coming, mother!" I heard another voice answer, delicate, light, and alto. Feet shuffled upstairs, but my heart began pounding faster than it had, adrenaline rushing through my veins, sweat gathering at my palms. _No, I _know_ that voice. _

"You'll have to excuse my youngest son and husband," Mrs. Asgard said off-handedly, my mother and father walking side by side into view. "They have this nasty habit of never hearing the doorbell."

"I'm sure they're wonderful nonetheless," my father replied with a half smile.

"Oh yes, of course! Owen works so very hard, and-"

"Brother!" Tom grinned, his sight suddenly distracted away after interrupting his mother.

"I- ah, here he is!" Mrs. Asgard gazed up the stairs, hands clasped by her belly with an expectant smile. I followed her eyes, my heart dropping to the floor, biting the inside of my cheek being all I could do to keep from squeaking in shock. Ebony hair as cultured as always, catching the light with a nightly glare as he gave a small smile, elegant as he traipsed down the stairs- grace as easy as breathing. A dark green shirt accented with black pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows to give way to toned arms, and the collar left to yawn at the top. His emerald eyes briefly met mine and his step faltered, haltingly resuming his pace as he ended on the bottom step, lips parted and brow creasing in concern.

"Erik, Miranda, my I introduce to you my youngest," Mrs. Asgard continued, stepping aside to let the black-haired boy through. His pink lips pulled into a half smile, leaning forward to shake hands with my father. I couldn't help but tremble, barely keeping in my shock, air abruptly something I had to fight for.

"Mr. Selvig," he acknowledged, voice quiet and dulcet, softer than a wood-wind instrument. "Pleasure to finally meet you. And Mrs. Selvig." He turned to my mother.

"Here again, only this time, I'm at you're door," she cleverly answered, taking his hand politely.

"Fortunately," he nodded good-naturedly, shifting towards my brother with considering eyes, narrowed eyes.

Andrew returned the gesture with unequaled intensity, stiffly reaching forward to shake hands with a furrowed brow. The black-haired boy obliged the hand-shake, and forced a nod. "Andrew Selvig," my brother offered, his lips twitching.

"Pleasure," the black-haired boy returned. I didn't miss my brother's sudden predatory hackles standing, engaged now that there was a boy closer to my age in the room. My father exhibited the same guarding behavior, but less so- practiced and hidden, if not somewhat more relaxed than he had been with Tom. Perhaps he liked the black-haired boy.

"You're in Isla's grade," Andrew stated, retreating his hand to his pocket.

"Yes," the black-haired boy affirmed. "We share multiple classes together."

"Brilliant," Andrew continued, trying to seem perkily interested, but the death-glare never left his eyes. "I hope she doesn't bore you as she hides behind her sketchbook."

"Quite the contrary," the black-haired boy spun, adding with a smile, "I found this week to be quite...entertaining. Isla's certainly talented."

"That she is, brother," Tom ascertained, clapping the smaller, thinner youth on the shoulder. "We've become as thick as thieves."

"_Brother?"_ I finally gasped, releasing the breath I had been unknowingly keeping. My hands never stopped shaking, and I clenched the hemline of my dress in a futile effort to keep them still.

"Yes," Tom nodded with a smile, slipping an arm around the black-haired boy's shoulders and giving him a silently unwelcome squeeze. "This is my younger brother. Didn't you know this?"

I rigidly shook my head, unable to help but gawk in sheer shock- _the black-haired boy, the boy from the bus, my mystery boy; the brother of my newest, closest friend all along and I _never_ knew? _My knees nearly buckled.

Tom raised boy eyebrows but shrugged. "Oh well, you do now!" he chirped.

Mrs. Asgard picked up the beat from where it left off with Tom. "Will you all please make yourselves comfortable in the living room? Dinner shall be ready in a few moments, but please! Make yourselves at home!"

My father and mother glanced at each other, but gladly accepted the invitation and followed the three cousins, Sif, and Tom to the living room, Andrew tailing after them and to a Sif's side, both briefly meeting eyes before looking away. The black-haired boy lingered, staying hesitantly behind with me. His eyes never left mine, keeping me pinned as he walked forward in a lithe step and extended his hand.

"This is a chance to finally, truly meet you," he said calmly, almost warmly, eyebrows raised. "I'd like to take advantage of it. I...hardly know you."

"I...I could say the same," I replied slowly, my brow knitting before I offered my hand in return. He took it gently and gave a small squeeze, green eyes never wavering.

"Your true name is Acacia, correct?" he tested, not letting go.

I shrank back self-consciously, my hand feeling wet and my fingers still quivering. "Yes."

"But you go by Isla?" he continued, brows raised and grip tightening.

I nodded animatedly. "Yes."

He dipped his head after a small half-smile, glistening teeth showing briefly as he let go. He had the manners not to wipe it on his shirt while I retreated my palms back to what I hope it the absorbent cotton of my dress, locking my legs together. "And I...er..." I stammered before he could turn away.

He stayed, hovering expectantly, both brows raised.

I blushed and looked away to gather my courage. "I'm... I'm afraid I still don't know your name..." I mumbled half-heartedly, feeling weak and vulnerable.

He smiled, almost grimly, understandingly, and simple returns with a blink, "Loren."

My breath skipped, internalizing his name, taken back by the unexpected individuality of it. It suited him- the way it fell, a rhythm that suited his grace. He gave a small smile and then turned, striding to join his brother and cousins in the living room while my own family was made comfortable. He was no longer the black-haired boy, the boy from the bus, or the odor of mystery that hovered around my school days. He was no longer a ghost that came and went. I tried to settle with it, knowing that now he seemed all the more real with a name, and chewed the inside of my cheek to keep from doing anything stupid. Loren shifted when he saw me come over in hesitant stride, conscious of my presence, though he avoided my gaze this time. I decided to return the favor, expecting the quiet that followed.

Tom was already spinning a story with Sif to win the thoughts and admiration of my parents, while Andrew sat stiffly next to Hayden, the two doing everything to avoid conversation. It almost reminded me of how I stood next to Loren, both of us silent and unwavering, but this silence felt more natural. A mutual agreement not to talk, not an excuse to avoid it. Loren only folded his arms across his chest and listened, grand, statuesque, a calculating quiescence, still in the background of the family gathering.

I pursed my lips and deliberated the situation for a moment. The mystery boy was the younger brother of my best friend, and I never knew. I hadn't even _guessed._ I felt flustered, stupid, embarrassed, and invasive. But there he was standing next to me.

_Loren. His name is Loren._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've split this chapter into two parts. So... I haven't been updating as much. My wrist is still a pain, but I'm thinking that it's going to have to be a goal to update every weekend, even if it's small. Fanart links on the profile! **


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